


The Man In My Eyes

by germanjj



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dubious Consent, Explicit Language, First Time, M/M, Minor Character Death, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-20
Updated: 2011-02-20
Packaged: 2017-10-15 19:20:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 45,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/164119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/germanjj/pseuds/germanjj
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sam and Dean grew up together, this ... thing between them, the deep connection they share, built up slowly, wriggled it's way into their lives, slipped and settled carefully between them, into the fragile shape of normalcy.<br/>But what if they didn't? What if their lives separated a long time ago and now that their paths finally cross, everything between them clashes, collides, and it creates something more. Something bigger than them.<br/>You can't escape fate. You can only make it worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Then

 

The door made an angry noise when it fell shut, the sound echoing through the half-empty rooms.

They've stayed in this sorry excuse for a house for only three weeks. It was cheap to rent, unsuspicious enough, and, most importantly, close enough to a church and its pastor so his boys could run and hide there any time if the worst case happened. But they would probably leave any day now. A job was waiting for John two states from here and Dean could finish the school year there. No point in making it a home.

"Dean? Sam?" John's voice carried through the hallway but a response didn't come.

The hairs on the back of John's neck raised, the anticipation of fear crawling up his spine.

Something was wrong.

Two large steps and he'd crossed the hallway, entered the living area with the worn out sofa and the too small TV.

His eyes searched the room for any sign of a ghost or a demon - something unnatural. But they stopped at the sight of his eldest son.

And the gun in his small, trembling hands; the barrel pointing right at him.

"Dean!" John gasped, making another step. "I'm here now. It's okay. You can put the gun down. I'm here, son."

Whatever it had been that had his son so scared that made the seven year old boy go for the hidden gun and raise it, it certainly wasn't there anymore. John couldn't feel anything supernatural in the house and his instincts never failed him when it came to this.

But his son didn't lower the gun, didn't point it somewhere else. He just kept his arm stretched, the finger on the trigger, his whole body shaking.

"Dean?" John made another careful step forward. "Lower the gun, son. It's okay."

Dean shook his head. Tears were streaming down his face, the collar of his shirt already damp and dark with it. Snot ran over his lips and he kept on shaking. Shaking so bad, John could hear his teeth rattle.

"Dean? What's wrong?"

The fear came back again, gripping John tight and squeezing his heart.

"Dean, where is Sam?"

The small boy sobbed at that, a pained cry that stabbed right through his father's heart.

"Where's Sam, Dean? Where is your brother? Dean!" He wanted to take another step forward, but a jolt went through his son and the gun-hand suddenly stopped shaking.

"Dean?" John whispered. "Where's Sammy?"


	2. Demons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam, who chooses carefully what he wants,  
> like he isn't used to eating in diners and doesn't know that in the end, they're all the same.  
> Sam, who smiles shyly at the waitress as she leaves and when he turns to Dean,  
> his smile get's even bigger, deeper, and suddenly, Dean can't breathe.

~*~ 1 ~*~

Now

 

When the sun is up so high that the light hits the hood of the car and then his eyes, Dean can't tell how long he's been sitting here, in the driver's seat of his baby, his hands gripping the wheel like he is holding onto a lifeline.

His father is dead.

The smell of burnt flesh is still stinging in Dean's nose and he isn't sure if he will ever get rid of it. Of the sight of his father burning in huge, red flames.

It's what he had wanted. Dean grips the wheel tighter and draws in a breath that scratches along his throat.

It's what he'd wanted, he keeps telling himself. Burnt to dust so that there is no way he would come back, his soul tortured and desperate and restless. And Dean knows, deep down, that he'd done the right thing when he claimed his father's body from the hospital, drove out here, far enough away from civilization, and piled up the wood. He had placed the body above, had poured salt upon salt on it and lit the match.

The cracking of the flames still rings in his ear jumbled together with his father's last words, screaming inside his head in a horrible mix.

"You have to find him. I know that you know where he is, Dean. You have to find Sam. You have to save him. And if you can't ... ."

Dean had stared up at him from the hospital bed. Recovering from a near death experience that should have been that, death, but somehow wasn't. And his father had met his eyes with a sad but strong look.

"You promised," Dean had whispered, but suddenly that hadn't even been that important. Not when ... not with the words his father had said.

"He's my ... ."

Dean had never seen his father so emotional up until then, hadn't seen the storm of love, regret and fear swivel so low under the surface.

"I wasn't going to give up on either of you. Do you hear me, Dean? Not on him and not on you."

The implications in what his father had said had hit Dean low and hard, had shaken him to the core on what his father might have done, not only for Sam, but for Dean.

But his mind had kept going back to the words his father had whispered to him. "You have to find Sam. You have to save him. And if you can't ... you’re gonna have to kill him."

And then his father had left the hospital room. And he had been dead not five minutes later.

 

Dean shudders, despite the warmth in the car at the hollow feeling in his guts.

He can't think about it now. About his father's death and what it means to him. It's too much, too huge to let it get near him. Dean shoves it away, like he knows how to do it, far away in a deep corner inside him and locks it up, safe and unreachable, and concentrates instead on the things he had told him in the hospital. The things that are important now.

"You have to find Sam. You have to save him."

He'd stayed away for almost nine months now. Hadn't checked up on Sam since then and Sam had been fine, fine, the last time he'd seen him. He'd been at a Halloween party. Not dressed up like all the other kids but Dean had seen from afar how Sam had smiled, wide and innocently, and he had put his arm around his petite blonde, sweet girlfriend and Dean had left him with a light feeling in his heart and a smile on his own lips.

The thought that Dean had been missing something about Sam scratches something raw inside of him.

Years, almost his whole life, Dean had watched Sam from afar, just kept an eye on him from a distance. Now though, now Dean is starting the engine and gets his car on the road to find Sam. Maybe to get him back.

Although the bitter, heavy smell of death surrounds Dean like a thick blanket, drowning out the rest of the world, the flares of joy and deep fear are making it through.

 

~*~ 2 ~*~

 

"Henricksen, FBI. Looking for a suspect you just got in." Dean's voice is gravely low, his face annoyed enough that the young man at the desk looks up with eyes as big as saucers. Dean flashes the fake badge, doesn't even give the kid really time to take a good look at it, and then the young officer nods jerkily, intimidated by Dean's behavior.

This is good.

Because inside, Dean is fuming.

He'd spent four days trying to find Sam. Four days after he got to his place, found an empty and cold apartment, blood dried all over the floor and the furniture, and freaked the fuck out believing that Sam was gone, dead, and nobody had told him because nobody could know how much he meant to him.

Dean had heard about the dead body that was found in Sam's apartment, a John Doe nobody claimed to know or miss, and about Sam having vanished, days ago now.

Had heard about his girlfriend's death months before, burnt in the fire that had destroyed their home and had cursed himself for not being there, for not preventing Sam from going through something like this. That was his goddamn job, dammit, and he had spectacularly failed at it. Hadn't seen Sam in months, months, that had changed the other man's life to the core.

Had spent hours on the edge of sanity, thinking, knowing that he wouldn't be able to lose Sam too. Not after dad. Not ... ever.

 

"We were waiting for you, Agent Henricksen," the deputy stumbles and he's nervous and eager and probably excited to be facing an FBI agent, some big guy from Washington coming to a town like this in nowhere, California, where nothing bad seemed to happen.

"We're lucky to catch him," he tells Dean eagerly, eyes lit up like a little boy's at Christmas morning. "He tried to run and hide after what he did; killing the poor guy. But he came to the wrong town. A guy his size sure causes attention. We know our people here and he wasn't one of us. It was my idea to check him."

Dean nods grimly, mumbles a "Good work, son," although he's maybe not even older than the guy. But with what he had seen in his life so far compared to Dean, it might as well be decades.

The young deputy leads Dean through a corridor into the back of the precinct, where two small cells are waiting to be filled with drunk drivers and hormone ridden teenagers.

Not with Sam, not with his ... .

 

"Who the hell are you?" a low voice hits him and Dean needs some time to realize who's talking to him, who the fox-like eyes belong to that shoot daggers at him.

Sam looks huge, way too big for that small cell and the little chair that's standing behind him. He has visibly changed so much since the last time Dean's seen him that Dean doesn't even know where to start.

He looks taller, way more built now. His skin is darker somehow, his face harder, sharper. Dean can't take his eyes off him.

 

Sam looks from the deputy to Dean and back. No stop, no hesitation, no flicker of recognition. And Dean shouldn't have hoped for something different, deep down, but sometimes he forgets that compared to how important Sam is in his life, how much he's not in Sam's.

"Is he my attorney?" Sam demands to know from the deputy and even Sam's voice has changed since the last time Dean has properly heard it. It's deeper now, stronger.

Dean barely even notices how the deputy takes a few steps back, obviously intimidated by Sam's presence. "This is Agent Henricksen. He's taking you to ... ."

 

Sam looks ... different. And it's not just the extra inches in his height or the muscles packing to his frame. Worry builds up low in Dean's stomach. There's something ... not wrong with Sam, but ... different. Just different.

"Uhm, Sir?" When Dean notices him again, he can tell the young deputy was only seconds away from pulling on Dean's sleeve. "Where are you taking him?"

"None of your business," Dean finally answers, drops his voice an octave on purpose. "That man is my responsibility now."

The deputy nods a few times too many. "Of course, Sir."

"Where's his stuff?"

Dean waits for the kid to walk off, spring into action, but all he gets is a confused look.

"You know, money, id? The things the kid had with him when he got caught?"

"Oh, yeah, sure." Now the young man finally does what he's told and vanishes in another room. Dean wonders absentmindedly if the kid is the only one working in this building.

 

It's silent now that the deputy is gone. Sam stares at him, Dean can feel every move of the other man's eyes on his body like it's a hand caressing his skin. Dean feels nervous.

He tries to keep his composure, keep being the swaggering FBI agent who's just here to take another bad guy into custody. But it's Sam who's staring at him and Dean can't remember the last time Sam had really looked at him. It's stirring something inside Dean that was long forgotten.

"What about my attorney?" Sam asks again, this time directed at Dean, but his voice quivers faintly and his strong stare is reduced to an insecure glance.

For just a blink of an eye, Dean can see the little boy in there he had known so well.

"You'll see him when we get there," Dean answers with a rough voice, the question halfway forgotten in his head.

Sam nods and steps back, retreating in the safe shadow of his cell and it's like he's feeling it too, this strong, weird little ... something, that's stretching between the two of them.

Dean's almost sure Sam must hear his heartbeat over the few feet separating them, but then Dean's almost hearing Sam's too.

 

"Uhm, here, Sir," the deputy comes shuffling back into the room and finally breaks the atmosphere. "Samuel Connor. This is everything he had with him."

The guy hands Dean a brown paper bag with Sam's name scribbled on it. Dean glances in and only sees a wallet. Not even keys.

"Okay, get him out of there," Dean orders, nodding at the deputy.

He watches the kid fumbling nervously with the handcuffs as he puts them on Sam through the bars and Dean thinks of a Sam so much smaller than now, thin and gangly, innocent. He wonders if Sam realizes that he could have knocked out the little deputy with not much more than a serious push.

"Hey kid, you coming?" Dean asks when the door to Sam's cell is open and the deputy has handed the keys for the cuffs to Dean.

"Don't call me kid," Sam answers immediately; muttering under his breath but sharp enough to hear, but he hesitates following after Dean. And when Dean catches his glance he isn't sure if Sam is intimidated by the whole situation; being a college student wanted for murder, or by something else. Someone else.

Dean doesn't miss the way Sam's looking at him, calculating and ... wondering, and it unsettles him more than he wants to admit. It presses the air out of his lungs, the room, and Dean wants nothing more right now than to get out of this friggin' building and get going.

"Uhm, Sir?" the deputy follows them nervously, "What about ... about the paperwork, Sir?"

Dean doesn't turn around but let's Sam in front of him, opens the door. "Just fax it to the bureau," he tells the officer they're leaving behind, and then the door falls shut behind him and he's alone with Sam.

It's a wide open space around them; the street, the parking lot, the shops on the other side, but it still feels like he's alone with him and Dean doesn't know how to deal with that. Sam is only a few steps away and Dean can actually feel the other man's heat stirring his skin, can faintly smell him and jesus, his senses are jumbled and confused.

"This is your car?" Sam asks neutrally as soon as they reach the Impala.

"You got something to say about my car?"

Sam looks up at Dean, probably not missing the warning in Dean's voice. "Nice ride," Sam answers and there it is again, that studying look. Like Dean's a friggin’ puzzle.

"Get in," Dean orders roughly and gets into the car himself, barely waits for Sam to settle in the passenger seat before the engine roars to life and they're out of the town in only a few minutes.

 

"You're not gonna ask me?" Sam asks after a long time of silence between them where Dean could only concentrate on not feeling the warmth of the other man's body seeping into his skin just inches apart. Dean feels like he's going to explode any minute now. Something's going on between them and it's not right, not normal, and Dean's practically vibrating with it.

But on the surface, he's nothing but cool indifference. "Ask you what?" he asks lazily, his eyes never leaving the road.

"About that guy. In my apartment. The one I killed?"

Dean can feel Sam's eyes on him, would have even if he didn't see his face turned towards him from his peripheral vision. Sam is tensed, waiting for Dean's answer.

"It wasn't your fault," Dean finally replies.

"How would you know that?" Sam asks, suspicious.

"I just do."

 

It feels like Dean only blinks and then suddenly Sam's hands are between his, gripping the steering wheel and the car makes an awful high sound when it slingers down the road.

"What the fuck are you doing?!" Dean shouts. The handcuffs still around Sam's hand push down on Dean's arms, the metal's ripping over his flesh and it hurts like hell.

Dean fights against Sam's grip on his baby, but Sam is as strong as he looks and Dean needs all his strength to keep the Impala upright when they come to a halt on the side of the road.

The door is open and Sam running even before they're fully stopped, but Dean is trained, instincts and reflexes better than most people, and he's around the car and on Sam's heels in no time.

"You're not getting me," Sam growls as Dean reaches him, pulls him in and gets them both falling down onto the ground; dry earth blowing up in clouds around them.

Sam fights like a maniac, kicks and pushes. He fights for his life, Dean realizes and almost freezes on the spot. "Stop it! Fuck! Stop it!" Dean is still stronger, still keeping the upper hand and soon they're only lying in the dust, Dean on top of Sam, both panting.

"You here to kill me, right?" Sam asks, fire blazing in his eyes.

Dean frowns, is almost thrown off balance but then he gets a grip and keeps on holding Sam down, pressing Sam's arms above his head to the ground; the cuffs already creating a mark in the earth. "What the hell makes you think that?"

Sam's eyes narrow to slits and he looks almost dangerous and god, so much different. "You're not FBI," Sam growls. "Coming here alone, with that car of yours? You're not even a cop!"

"Okay, you're right about that," Dean gives in and he's starting to get uncomfortable here, pressed so close to Sam's huge body, but Sam is still twitching, still trying to get away.

"So, you're one of them," Sam rasps. "And you're here to kill me."

"One of who?" Dean' voice drops low and cold and he sees Sam immediately react to it, sees his eyes widen with traces of panic.

"The ... people, who tried before. One of whom I killed," Sam stumbles over the words and Dean can feel the rise and fall of his chest against his own, the frantic beating of his heart against his own.

"I'm here to help you, dumbass," Dean finally says, all the anger gone from his voice. "Missouri sent me," he adds as an afterthought, although he doesn't remember the last time he's seen her.

"Missouri?" Sam's face changes completely and there he is again, the little kid Dean knew.

"Yeah, damnit." Dean slowly crawls off Sam as he feels the other man loosen up beneath him. "I help her from time to time. How do you think I knew you were in trouble?" The lie rolls easily off his tongue and he almost wants to believe it himself.

Doesn't want to think that if his father hadn't died, he wouldn't have gone looking for Sam, would have maybe found him months later buried in a prison cell, alone and broken.

If not dead.

“You’re here to help me?” Sam's voice is so small, so anxious, that it sends an uneasy shiver down Dean’s spine. The huge man who had attacked him not a minute ago, crumpled down to an innocent kid in front of his eyes.

“Yes,” Dean says and stands up properly, reaching down to offer Sam a hand.

Sam hesitates and for a minute Dean believes the younger man won't react at all. All the fight has left him completely, the strong bravado he had worn since Dean had seen him in that cell has vanished.

But Dean waits patiently and finally Sam takes the offer, takes his hand with both of his own and let's himself be helped to stand up.

And as much as he wants it, Dean can't help but feel the jolt going through his body as their hands grip each other, sure and strong.

Dean reaches into his pocket and pulls out the keys for the handcuffs. He looks up to Sam until the other man gets what Dean's going to do and holds his hands up. The cuffs come off with a low ping and Dean lets them fall to the ground, throws the keys to them.

"My name is Dean. Winchester," he tells Sam, feels weird saying it like that. He can't remember the last time he had told someone his real name.

"Okay," Sam exhales warily, brushes the dirt off of his pants.

"And what ... what do we do now?"

"Honestly?" Dean shrugs. "Get as far away from here as possible. Then grab a burger and find a place to sleep for the night."

Sam's eyes shoot up to Dean and Dean can see how Sam's face falls. "That's your plan? What about ... what about the cops? What about the FBI?"

"I didn't exactly have the time to think about that, genius," Dean barks back, mostly because Sam is right and he has no idea what to do now. The moment he had heard about the dead man in Sam's apartment and Sam gone missing, he had functioned on instinct alone. There had never been time for a friggin' plan. "You know that name I used? Henricksen? The guy is coming for you for real. I know that guy. Trust me, he's bad news. So sorry that I was just thinking about to get you the hell outta there."

Sam stops and only stares at Dean, his eyes so lost and sad Dean can barely stand it. "Thank you," he whispers finally.

Dean nods, motions to the Impala. "Now get in the friggin' car. And if you ever, ever try to crash my baby again, I will kill you."

 

~*~ 3 ~*~

 

They arrive at an old, but decent motel close to midnight and Dean's almost determined to keep his baby going till morning but Sam looks so tired next to him that he doesn't have the heart to drive on.

The lady at the desk is nice and isn't too curious about the two of them and it suits Dean just fine. His skin prickles with the knowledge of police and FBI on their heels but it's unlikely that they will find them this fast. At least Dean hopes.

They get one room with two singles and for a second Dean thinks the lady looks surprised like she expected him to take one king but she isn't saying anything so Dean doesn't either. Sam next to him doesn't even register the conversation, so Dean pushes him gently down the hall and into their room.

 

"Maybe we should just head straight to bed, man, you look exhausted," Dean states in a soft tone and is irritated when Sam blushes and turns away.

He looks lost with his big frame and hunched shoulders, standing in the middle of the motel room that has flowery curtains and walls. It looks even more ridiculous this way, and more sad. Dean wishes he could do something to wipe that look off the other man's face.

"Hey, no need to worry." He tries to soothe Sam, just the way he's used to talk to witnesses and victims. "Just a good night's sleep and you'll be as good as new."

"Yeah, maybe," Sam answers as if he doesn't believe it. "But I will still be on the run, still wanted for murder. And I have no place to go, no future to go back to and ..."

Sam catches Dean's face and something he sees there makes him stop. "I'm sorry," he whispers, throwing his arms weakly in the air. "I just had a shitty ... year. And you're just trying to help me. I'm sorry."

Dean only nods to that but keeps his worried eyes on Sam.

"So," Sam looks from one bed to the other. "Where will I sleep?"

"Bed closest to the bathroom." Dean answers without thinking. "I'll take the one next to the door."

Dean is surprised when he actually gets a weak smile from Sam and a soft laugh. "You trying to protect me, huh?"

Dean thinks about it a second, then shrugs. "That's my job."

 

Four hours into the night and Dean wakes up from the first soft gasp from the other bed.

He isn't used to sleeping with someone else in the room. Not anymore. Not after he and Dad had split ways to cover more jobs.

He tries to fall asleep again but Sam keeps making noise. Soft gasps and strangled sounds and for a second Dean smirks and thinks Sam is dreaming of something very nice, but then he hears him again and it sounds a lot more like a nightmare now.

Dean listens to it for another five minutes before Sam starts actually thrashing in his bed, throwing his head from left to right and back again and it startles Dean how weird that feeling inside his stomach is, watching the other man like that.

"Sam," he whispers and shuffles over to the other bed. There is a streetlight not far from their room and the distant glow lets Dean see the sweat on Sam's skin, the scrunch of his brow and the twist of his mouth.

"Sam," he says again, louder this time. "Come on, man, wake up."

The younger man seems deeply asleep, caught up in whatever it is he is dreaming about. Dean hesitates, but then he reaches out for Sam, gently touching the other man's shoulder.

"Damnit, Sammy, wake up."

He keeps shaking him until finally, finally, Sam's eyes open and with a silent gasp and the shock written on his face, Sam moves into an upright position.

"You okay, man?" Dean asks but Sam's eyes flutter through the barely lit room before they fix on Dean.

"It's me, Dean. You're in a motel room, remember? You were dreaming. You just had a nightmare, man."

Sam looks at him for a second and then nods, his hectic breathing starting to slow down.

"I ... I can't remember," Sam says, breathing heavily, his gaze lost in the room. "... the night when the man died in my apartment. I don't know if I ... if I killed him or not."

Dean can see him close his eyes, can see the confession weigh on his shoulders.

"I think you should know that. Before you ... decide to help me."

"Sam." Dean waits for the other man to look up at him. "Whatever happened, it's not your fault. And I'm gonna help you get through all this, okay?" Dean levels his voice like he had done a million of times in his job. Every night, silently in a corner of his heart, he had prayed not ever needing to use this voice with Sam.

"What makes you so sure?" Sam's eyes dart up to him like a five year old's, his voice breaking at the end of the sentence and Dean just wants to make that look vanish from his face.

"Some other time, Sam, we need some sleep."

Sam nods, gulps heavily and takes a shuddering breath.

"You'll be alright?" Dean stands up, looming over the other man, waiting for a response. When Sam nods again, Dean finally turns around to get back to his own bed.

"Thank you," Sam says when Dean's head is buried in the pillow again and the scratch in the other man's voice sends a shiver through Dean's body.

 

~*~ 4 ~*~

 

"We have to go," Dean says just as Sam leaves the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist and his skin still steaming from the hot shower.

"What?" he asks dumbly, making big eyes at Dean.

But Dean eyes the window, his pulse speeding up and he only glances at Sam for a second or two, before his eyes wander back to the parking lot.

"There's a cop car outside." Dean turns around and waits for Sam to understand what this means. Sam finally gets into motion and Dean is surprised at how fast he is in his clothes and packed up and ready to leave.

"Okay, we can go," Sam says and he's a little tensed-up.

Dean doesn't hesitate. He doesn't necessarily think that the car is there for them, but he's not taking any chances. He checks them out while Sam is already sitting in the Impala and then they drive off with Dean repeatedly checking the rear-view mirror.

Nothing happens. No sirens, no alarming lights. They’re three towns further when Dean turns to Sam and says: "I think we're good. You want breakfast?"

"Okay. Yeah, sure," Sam answers and he's still a little tensed and uncertain. "Where are we goin'?"

Dean shrugs and turns his eyes on the road. "Don't know. The next diner that looks good to you, I guess."

"No, I mean ... Where do we go? Like now? What are we going to do? Who's gonna help us?"

Dean throws another look at Sam and can see the desperate need for an answer right on the other man's face. "Missouri," Dean tells him. "We have to lay low for awhile, figure out what we can do. She's our best option right now."

Sam nods, although he still doesn't look too convinced.

"Was she your case-worker, too?" Sam asks, quieter.

"She ... no." Dean stops. Remembers that that's all Missouri is to Sam. "My father and I met her when I was kid. She helped the family out. We’ve stayed in touch since then." He keeps it vague, hopes that Sam doesn't want to know too much.

Dean isn't prepared for this. Doesn't have versions of the truth rehearsed.

But fortunately Sam doesn't push, only nods again.

"Don't worry, Sam," Dean says seriously, tries to reassure him. "Missouri can help us somehow. She has a talent with people."

Sam laughs out loud and the sound of it fills the car and the sudden jolt in Dean's inside tells him how much he had missed that sound. Missed it bouncing off the upholstery and the windows. Missed him.

"Yeah, you can say that. When I was little I was convinced that she could read my mind." He says it carelessly, a throw-away comment and it tells Dean that Sam doesn't know more. That for Sam, Missouri is just a nice lady, and it gives him hope that there's still an innocence inside Sam he can save.

"Dude, I'm starving," Dean groans dramatically, covering up his emotional slip.

He only realizes how rigid Sam has been the whole time, when Sam smiles at Dean's words and all the tension leaves his body instantly. For a second, Dean feels bad for scaring Sam so much with the police car, but he reminds himself that this was nothing and that, unfortunately, Sam had to learn to watch his back from now on. Even if Dean had always been there to watch it for him. Almost always.

 

They find a friendly looking diner twenty minutes down the road and slide into the booth in the back easily in a better mood than before. The diner is maybe half full, some truckers, a family and some locals splattered around the room and the noises are at a decent level.

Their waitress, Amy, is sweet and friendly but not paying too much attention to them and if he was alone, Dean would have felt the need to change that, to step up his game and flirt with her until she was paying attention, but he can't and won't do that here, now, with Sam.

Sam.

Sam, who chooses carefully what he wants, like he isn't used to eating in diners and doesn't know that in the end, they're all the same. Sam, who smiles shyly at the waitress as she leaves and when he turns to Dean, his smile gets even bigger, deeper, and suddenly, Dean can't breathe.

His chest crushes under the weight of Sam's smile when he thanks the waitress for bringing the food, of the hesitant glance he throws at Dean, of the one foot distance that only separates them now.

It's Sam. The most important person in Dean's life. And who has no idea who's sitting in front of him.

It's his Sam, the one he's known all his life and not at all and he's a different one from yesterday. Lighter, more cheerful, like he's five years younger and hasn't seen so much in life yet that it could take him down.

 

Dean is up and walking away from the table before he can even make the conscious decision to do so. He almost knocks the ketchup bottle over, can feel Sam giving him a confused look, can feel it tickling at the back of his neck.

But he needs to get out, needs to get away from him for just a second, needs to breathe. Sam's presence fills up the whole room, swings in the air like a sweet taste and Dean feels sick, feels like he can't stop breathing it in.

He ends up in the restroom. Can't turn around and cross the diner again to get outside, because he got up too fast, didn't look where he was heading and chose the wrong direction. But the quietness of the men's room is enough to get air in his lungs and his head back on straight.

'If Dad could see me now' is a thought that suddenly rushes through Dean's head and it feels stale and muffled. A hurt buried too deep inside Dean that he would be able to feel it, but the thought makes himself feel guilty anyway. Losing his head in a crowded Diner. Leaving Sam alone in a room full of people who could be a danger to him. It's like every training, every move that was pressed into his head until it became instinct, vanishes in the presence of Sam.

"Dean?" The small voice pulls Dean back suddenly and he turns around, sees Sam standing in the restroom, holding the door open. "You okay?"

"Yeah sure," Dean answers, guards his face. "Was just taking a piss. Let's go eat." He washes his hands, mostly so he won’t have to look up at Sam immediately and to back up his lie.

"Dude? Did you order the whole menu?" Dean asks when he sees their table already full with plates. Sam laughs again next to him and Dean could get used to that.

"Well, I'm high maintenance, I guess." Sam grins when Dean meets his eyes and they're walking so close, Sam's arm is brushing Dean's and Dean can feel himself sway towards Sam, blushes and tries to step back.

But then Dean almost bumps into Sam when the other man suddenly stops in his tracks.

"Dude, watch wh....," Dean starts but then he sees the tiny red car-toy that had bumped against Sam's feet.

Dean looks up and sees two boys sitting at another table, their parents engrossed in a wild conversation, not noticing the loss of the toy. The little one, maybe three or four, is watching them with big, sad eyes, the toy clearly belonging to him.

Dean watches them, like he always does, although he doesn't even realize it most of the time. The little one on the edge of tears, his tiny chin already wobbling. It's his bigger brother who gets up from the table and takes the courage to walk up to them.

Dean bows down and picks the toy up, holds it in his hands. He can feel Sam's eyes on him like a sun burning on his skin.

"Excuse me, Sir," the little boy, maybe eight, speaks up to Dean. "It's my brother's car. Can I have it back?"

He reaches his hand out, opens his palm and on the table, Dean can see the younger one watch the scene.

"Sure, kiddo." Dean puts the car in the little boy's hands. "Make sure you take good care of your brother, okay? Promise me that?"

The kid nods wordlessly, takes the car and walks back to the table, handing the toy to his brother who looks happy and excited now.

Dean meets Sam's eyes, sees the amused grin play around his lips.

"Dude, what are you waiting for? Food’s gonna get cold!" he yells at him and earns another smile.

 

~*~ 5 ~*~

 

"Wow, that was ... ." Sam laughs lightly next to him as he follows Dean back to the Impala. When Dean glances up he sees Sam's right hand repeatedly stroking the bangs out of his face, his eyes cast downwards with that small happy smile on his lips.

"That was what?"

"Probably the worst food I've ever eaten. And the unhealthiest too." He glances up at Dean now and his eyes sparkle and his grin is so wide Dean feels tempted to mirror it. And holy shit is that kid flirting with him?

It's disturbing to Dean on so many levels but Sam is happy for a change and Dean is damn well not trying to change that if he can help it. "Come on, you loved it," Dean answers and gives Sam a playful clap to the head.

The laughter that whooshes out of Sam, open and carefree, is enough to make Dean smile widely in response. "Yeah, I kinda did," Sam whispers and looks Dean right in the eyes, blushing, and maybe Dean should do something about that but he wants to keep that happy face on there just a little while longer.

"Get in the car, bitch."

"Shut up, jerk," Sam doesn't miss a beat and pulls his door shut just in time with Dean.

 

Sam gets fidgety about an hour into the drive. He plays with the hem of his shirt, starts shuffling with his feet in the too small room in front of his seat.

"What's up?" Dean asks, his eyes not leaving the road but he hears Sam's head snap around, feels Sam's eyes looking at him.

"Nothing."

"Sammy," Dean says, hearing the lie in Sam's voice clear as a bell.

Sam huffs beside him. "Dude, stop calling me Sammy. It's Sam. I'm not a little kid."

Dean startles and throws a glance at the man beside him. The man; not a little kid with too long arms and legs, not a five year old with baby fat and round red cheeks. But that man is still him, still Sammy. It was always Sammy to him. In his head. "Sorry," he mumbles awkwardly.

"I ... I'm worried about my family you know?" Sam explains and Dean can hear the apology swing with it.

He tenses at the mention of family out of Sam's mouth.

"You wanna call them?" Dean asks, tries to let it sound casually. "Tell them you're alright?"

Sam hesitates next to him and Dean risks a glance, sees the thoughts running through Sam's head clear as day on his face.

"No," Sam whispers finally. "The ... the cops might be there already. Ask them if they had seen me. I don't want to make it any harder for them."

Dean almost wants to say something, wants to tell Sam that nothing would be harder for his family than not knowing where he is. But he keeps his mouth shut. Keeps all the thoughts coming with it away.

"You're close to your folks?" Dean asks and hates himself for it. But he can't stop asking now they're talking about it, needs to know so bad, and he just hopes Sam doesn't notice any of the turmoil going on inside Dean.

"I ... yeah, I guess," is Sam's vague answer and a cold shiver of fear travels down Dean's spine.

"Not a happy childhood?" Dean asks and Sam must hear it now: the emotions vibrating in his voice. Although Sam would never know what his answer would mean to Dean.

"Whar? No! I had a good childhood." Sam nods and a happy smile plays around his lips.

Dean let's out a breath he was holding. Maybe for twenty years.

"I mean, don't get me wrong. My parents are great. I'm a foster kid and I couldn't be anymore lucky then I am with them. I have two older sisters and one kid brother but ... ."

Sam stops and Dean turns his head towards him, urges him on with a "What?" because he needs to know, needs to know what could be wrong in the perfect picture Sam is painting here.

Sam shrugs, looking lost for words. "I just didn't feel ... connected to them, somehow, you know?" He turns his questioning eyes to Dean. "Like deep down, I always knew that they're not my real family. Like somewhere out there, someone is waiting for me."

Sam smiles to himself, shakes his head. "I know it sounds weird, okay? And I love my family, there's nothing to complain about. I just never felt ... home. Like being on a great vacation and loving every single moment but inside you, you know that you'd want to go home one day."

"I sound weird, right?" Sam asks shyly and Dean blinks, tries to push Sam's words out of his mind before they get to him too much. "No. No it doesn't," he assures him and get's his eyes back on the road.

 

"What's with your family?" Sam asks a few minutes later, his voice low.

Dean's irritated at first. "What do you mean?"

"Dean," Sam says and he's smiling, laughing. "We're running from the FBI. The real FBI! Although I don't understand why you do this for me, we're in this together. So I wanna know about your life, your family."

And he sounds so happy, loose and relaxed like he hasn't been since Dean had bailed him out of prison, but all Dean can think about is the cold, empty feeling that the thought of "family" leaves behind in his heart.

"My mother died when I was a kid," Dean tells him, keeping his eyes on the road before him and he braces himself against the next sentence. "And my dad died last week."

A shocked silence suddenly stretches between them. Dean doesn't even need to turn his head to know that Sam's gaping at him..

"Dean, I ... ."

Sam stops again and Dean refuses to look at him, refuses to watch the pity on Sam's face.

Sam is silent for a long time, but his eyes never leave Dean's face. Dean can feel it. Can feel Sam's gaze on him like a physical touch.

"I kinda really want to hug you right now," Sam finally says and he's laughing nervously, stretching his hand out to Dean and hovering a moment over his right arm before Dean pulls it back.

"Dude! Chick-flick much?" Dean laughs, too loud and too quick, and he bites down on his tongue and keeps his eyes straight ahead. He thinks that maybe Sam grew up in a family where hugging was the way to go, but not for him, not for Dean Winchester and the thought of Sam pulling him against him makes Dean uneasy.

"You sure you’re okay?" Sam asks quietly, not buying Dean's show for a second.

Dean groans inwardly. "I'm fine."

Sam doesn't ask again, stays mostly silent for the rest of their drive.

 

~*~ 6 ~*~

 

When Dean stops the car in front of Missouri's house, he notices the frown on Sam's face.

"What?"

Sam jerks like he's been deep in thoughts and meets Dean's eyes with a worried glance. "Something's wrong."

Now it's Dean who frowns. Sam is quiet, dead serious, and Dean can see the worry underneath. "What do you mean?"

"Just a feeling." Sam turns his eyes to the house again but his whole body is tense and he's starting to freak Dean out.

 

The door to the house isn't locked and Dean feels nervousness prickling down the back of his neck. Something is definitely wrong here.

"Sam, go back to the car," Dean orders under his breath but Sam doesn't move, doesn't even look at him.

"I'm not a kid, Dean," is all he says before he pushes the door open all the way.

And Dean curses a blue streak but he can't do anything really, other than to follow Sam inside. Something is wrong and the air is charged with it. Every instinct in Dean makes him go dead quiet, his hand traveling to his gun and tightening around it.

"Jesus Christ, Sam, you have a death wish or something? You have no idea what could be in here," Dean whispers harshly, just one step behind the other man and he doesn't miss the way Sam's body tenses even more for just a second.

But then Sam turns around to Dean and his eyes are sure when he looks at him. "Just ... trust me, okay?"

Dean wants to laugh about that, make a stupid joke about trusting a wanted man, but he bites his tongue and focuses on the house instead.

It's empty.

Dean knows it as soon as they're in the living room, although the TV is on and something is burning on the stove. The smell already lingers in the whole house, but nobody is there. Missouri is gone or ... worse.

"Dean, you should go," Sam gasps, alarmed, and throws a look at him that makes chills wave over Dean's body.

“Wha..?" Dean starts to say, wants to ask what Sam knows and he doesn't, but both men stop dead as they see a young woman stand in the doorway.

 

"Hey Sam." Her lips stretch into a smile but her eyes stay cold. She cocks her head to the side, her movements wrong somehow, inhuman. "Haven't seen you in a while. How's life treating you?"

"Who the hell is she?" Dean's voice booms through the room, his gaze never leaving the girl before him, but watching Sam out of the corner of his eyes.

"Her name is Meg," Sam answers, his lips pressed to a small line. Dean doesn't know this Sam. The older, harder version. "She was around on campus the last year. She talked to me, tried to be my friend."

"And you weren't even thankful," Meg complains, her voice a mockery of a teasing gentle one. "I tried my best to cheer you up. Took you out to the best bars and clubs in town, tried to get your mind off your dead little girlfriend. I wasn't even hurt when you showed no interest in me. Instead I gave you what you really wanted, didn't I? Pushed you right into the arms of this gorgeous young man in your favorite bar, right?"

"Stop it." Sam bites out under his breath.

Her grin only gets deeper. "Oh, as I recall correctly, this isn't what you said back then, is it?"

"I said, stop it!" Sam shouts and makes a step towards her.

"Oh, no, Sam. You wouldn't want to harm me now, would you? Since you owe me so much. Since all that's flowing through your ..."

"Shut up!" Sam surges forward, yells, and for a moment the girl seems frozen, almost afraid, but then her eyes swivel black and she snarls, hisses and Dean's heart stops a beat.

"Sam!" Dean shouts and storms forward, wants to grab for Sam and pull him away from that thing, but she turns her head and her dead eyes land on him.

"Oh, no, not you, Winchester," she says and Dean doesn't feel how he's lifted up, only feels the crash on his back when he hits the wall, hard, and falls down.

"Dean," he hears Sam gasp, sees him standing close to that bitch, his eyes huge with fear and confusion.

Dean gets up on his feet again, shuts out the pain that's stabbing through his spine. "Damnit Sam, get away from her!"

And surprisingly, Sam does.

He watches the black-eyed girl, horrified, but taking small, careful steps, he walks over to Dean until their arms brush.

"Aww, aren't you two cute as hell," Meg coons and her eyes switch back to normal.

"Look, I don't have time for the monsters are real speech, but that bitch there is a demon." Dean states to Sam, horror climbing up his throat.

He isn’t prepared for this, for a full on demon. Books with Latin enchantments are in the car, anything else nearly useless. Sam’s next to him and if push comes to shove, there’s nothing Dean can do to protect him.

Meg laughs out loud; a bitter, painful sound in their ears and her eyes land on Dean again.

"There's so much you don't know," she whispers.

"Dean," Sam gasps next to him and it will be later that Dean realizes that that's the only thing he gets. Not an 'Oh my god', not an 'a real demon?', no surprise, no shock, just this. Sam saying his name with fear.

But Dean doesn’t think about it right now; can only feel his heart pounding in his chest; can only think 'now I’m gonna lose him too'.

 

“Leave us alone,” Sam suddenly demands, his voice shaky and Dean can’t believe his eyes, as Sam makes a step forward and the demon…

… makes a step back.

“Sam,” she warns, but her magic is gone. Her façade is crippling little by little. She's afraid.

“Leave. Us. Alone,” Sam does it again, his voice strengthening with every word and for a second, Dean doesn’t know who he should be afraid of.

But the look on Sam's face tells Dean that he's scared too, afraid of what he's doing, of what's happening.

The demon waits; her eyes flicker from Sam to Dean and back to Sam and she's moving her head in little, spastic jerks.

It reminds Dean of a trapped animal, on a thundering edge between the fight or flight instinct kicks in.

That thought comes only a second too late.

 

Meg bursts forward with a roar, goes for Dean with her hands raised as if she wants to tear him apart with her bare hands and Dean reacts instantly, wants to fight back, but he's nothing against the force following on her step, the evil power that goes along with the black eyes. He feels himself being shoved first backwards then up in the air.

He hears Sam scream his name before he crashes down hard, a vase bursting under his weight, and then he blacks out.

 

It can't be much later when Dean wakes up again, blinking heavily against the pain in his head. He turns his head as soon as his mind catches up and his eyes search panicky for Sam.

Only when he sees him; sitting on the floor not too far away, panting, but breathing, he remembers that there is a fucking demon in here.

Or was.

"Where's she?" Dean rasps, tries to breathe against the pain.

"Gone," he hears the whisper from Sam, can't believe his ears.

"What?"

"Gone. Gone. She left."

Dean stares at Sam, who's still not looking at him, who keeps staring at an empty spot in front of him.

"You okay?" Dean waits, but gets no response.

"SAM!"

"Yeah, yeah," the other man gasps and still doesn't turn his head.

"Okay, get up and let’s go." Dean is the first on his feet again, takes the two steps to Sam in no time and tries to pull him up.

"We gotta leave, come on."

"She's gone," Sam rasps, clutches a hand to his skull.

"She might come back," Dean insists, stows away all the questions, all the lingering suspicions for later. "Now, come on."

 

They get out of the house as fast as Dean can make them, no looking back, no stopping to search for Missouri. As soon as Sam closes the door on the passenger's side, Dean makes the engine roar off and they speed away.

 

~*~ 7 ~*~

 

Dean stops the car half an hour later at some random gas station; still hyped up on energy. He hasn't said a word to Sam, not once, hasn't even looked at him for a second and it's as if a force is driving him out of the car as soon as they stop. He can't get enough distance between Sam and him fast enough and it's relieving yet it kills him at the same time.

"Hey Ellen, it's me," he says into his phone as soon as he's far enough away.

She reacts exactly like Dean expected. "Goddamnit, Dean? You owe me a damn good explanation, son!"

"Ellen, I don't have time for this now," he barks into the phone and he knows he's too harsh, but he can't help it.

"You will damn well make the time!" Ellen shoots right back. "I heard about your father, Dean. Heard rumors about him being dead. Is that true?"

Dean closes his eyes and swears. He can't take that memory too, on top of it all, can't think about his father now.

"Yes."

Ellen misses a beat, stays silent at the other end long enough for Dean to remind himself that she knew his father too. That in some way, she's lost him too. "I'm so sorry, Dean," she tells him, her voice rich with feeling.

"Look, I need your help," Dean ignores her words completely, determined not to let this conversation go that way.

And thankfully, Ellen isn't like that, they aren't like that, so she takes his cue and steels her voice. "I'm listening."

"I'm on a case," he tells her, a lie that rolls easily off his tongue. "There's something really friggin' weird about it. Innocent kid, suddenly haunted by a demon." Dean bites his teeth, forces himself to keep talking. He doesn't want Ellen in on this. Doesn't want anyone in on this, researching Sam like he's just another victim, another case. But he really hasn't much of a choice, this thing is one time too big for him.

"A demon?" Ellen says. "Wow. I've heard a lot of talk lately that they’re popping up everywhere nowadays. Something bad is going on, Dean."

"Tell me about it."

Dean's never seen a demon before with his own eyes, a full blown black-eyed son of a bitch, but his father had talked about them. Told him about how rare and dangerous they are.

And then there was the demon. Yellow-eyed.

Dean shudders at the memory. At the pale yellow looking at him from familiar eyes. At the alien grin on his father's face that keeps haunting him in the night. He shoves the thought away as far as he can reach. Now's not the time.

"Are you sure he's innocent?" Ellen asks on the other end.

"Who?"

"That kid you were talking about? You've checked him? Found anything that might explain why a demon is after him?"

Dean thinks about Sam sitting in the Impala not far away from him. Maybe still shocked from the confrontation with that demon-girl. He thinks about the scared look on the other man's face. About the lack of surprise when that bitch's eyes turned black. About her vanishing into thin air and leaving them unharmed.

"He's innocent," Dean finally tells her and his voice cracks just barely.

"Okay, I'll see what I can do. Send Ash everything you got about him. We'll check it out."

Dean hears loud voices in the background, deep laughter and a guy ordering beers, and he knows their conversation is over. Too many ears that could hear the wrong thing.

"Thanks Ellen. Say hi to Jo for me," Dean says, like he always does, like they always end their conversations. He hasn't seen them for a long time, didn’t see them that regularly to begin with. But people he comes close to call "friends" are rare where he comes from.

"Will do. Take care." Ellen answers just like she does every time.

 

~*~ 8 ~*~

Sam

 

Sam sees Dean’s reflection in one of the windows of the little shop over the street and it's enough so he can see the frown on his face, too, the scared and somewhat worried expression he tries to hide so bad in front of Sam.

Sam wishes he wouldn't. Wishes Dean would just open up and tell him everything because Sam knows that he's only scraping on the surface of what's actually going on here.

What had happened earlier this day is still shaking him to the core but it's more than that.

His heart never seems to stop beating double time, the fear never stops rushing through his veins. He's scared. Of what is happening all around him, of what he did, of what he's capable of doing. He's scared of the person he might be, deep down.

And somehow, in this chaotic mess, Dean appeared like a solid rock, like an anchor Sam wants desperately cling to.

Ever since his life was turned upside down that terrible night of the fire, he feels like Alice in Wonderland, falling deeper and deeper into the rabbit's hole. He doesn't know how Dean fits into the equation yet, but something tells him, something deep inside his guts, that he can trust Dean. He only wishes Dean would trust him too.

Even if ... even though...

Sam doesn't finish that thought. Buries it deep inside him behind that thick wall he's built the last year.

And then Sam's mind wanders, drifts off to the vague thoughts forming in his head. About Dean. About Dean being more than a friend, more than his protector. Sam blushes at the thoughts, even though he's alone, and he feels sick inside, thinking of Jess, thinking of his dead girlfriend and feeling like he's cheating on her.

His mind and heart are a mess, but Sam can't lie to himself, can't hide from what he's beginning to feel. And it surprises him as much as it shocks him. Every single day of the last year he had been sure not ever being able to feel anything, let alone something like ... like this. Not so soon after Jess. But the feeling that is slowly blooming inside him feels older somehow, and deeper. Like it's been there his whole life. Like it's been there first.

 

Sam sighs as he loses sight of Dean, lets his head fall back against the seat of the Impala and breathes in deeply. It's a comforting smell, something like leather and something more spicy laying over it. It's somehow familiar and Sam tries to remember where he could know that kind of smell from.

He feels his breathing go deeper, feels himself relax into the seat. It's a long time now since he has last felt this way. Safe, cared for. He doesn't want to lose his composure; his hold on himself he's keeping so tightly, but it's hard here, now, with the frame of the car feeling protective and somewhat familiar around him.

 

Sam feels the vision coming just a second before it starts, just enough to crawl his hands into the seat and clench his teeth for the inevitable pain.

"Howdie, Sam." The man's voice is dark and slightly amused and Sam jerks, so much that he hits his leg on the door, when he finds the man sitting in the driver's seat.

He's grinning and his eyes that are focused on Sam are glowing with a pale, dirty yellow.

"What do you want?" Every cell in Sam's body is screaming at him, instincts pushing his body to flee, but he can't, he won't. Sam sits frozen on his seat, panting against the force that is holding him there.

Somewhere in his head he knows that this is only a vision, or a dream; he might have fallen asleep in the car and opened the door for the yellow-eyed-man. But it doesn't matter at all. The fear that's rushing through his veins is real.

"Just checking up on you, Sammy. I haven't seen you in a while, wanted to know how you are." He tilts his head up, another grin spreading across his face. "How are you, Sam? Training hard I hope."

"Go to hell!" Sam shouts, although he feels his voice dying in his throat.

The yellow-eyed man only laughs out loud. "Been there, done that, kiddo," he tells Sam with a wink.

"What do you want from me?" Sam asks, breathless. Adrenaline drives hot through his veins, makes his hands clench up to fists so tight his nails are cutting into his flesh.

The man shrugs and shakes his head innocently. "Just that you eat your wheaties and grow big and strong for me. I need you sharp, Sam, alert."

"I'm not doing anything for you!" Sam can't control the words bursting out of him, can't control the anger that makes him shake like a leaf in the wind.

But the yellow-eyed-man stays annoyingly calm, raises a finger at Sam.

"Oh, but here's the catch. You already are."

Sam shakes his head violently. "I'm not. I'm not doing it. Whatever you want from me, I'm not doing it."

"Sam," the man says and now the amused look vanishes from his face completely and is replaced by a serious expression. "I have been patient with you. Don't make me start using threats. There will always be something I can take away from you." His gaze travels outside the car, to the window Dean's reflection had been mirrored before and Sam feels like he can't breathe anymore.

"You touch him I will kill you," he snarls instantly, the fury taking him over. He can feel it tingling in his fingertips. He fears it. As much as he welcomes it, he fears it.

The man makes a surprised and pleased sound, leans towards Sam and Sam can't get away from him, can't flee.

"Interesting," he says, like he's mocking Sam. Then his gaze travels up Sam's body, something like pride glistening in his eyes.

"That's what I'm talking about. All that hate, all that rage building up in you ... use it! It makes you stronger."

"What are you doing with me?" Sam asks and somewhere inside him he's scared to death. Scared like a little kid lost in the dark and all he wants is Dean to come back to the car and wake him up somehow. Make all the nightmares go away.

But the biggest part in Sam knows that this isn't just another nightmare.

Before him, the yellow-eyed-man shakes his head.

"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy. You don't really think it was just another fancy drink that made you feel extra good and extra strong in that bar, do you?"

"You drugged me somehow!" Sam accuses him through clenched teeth and all he gets is a small smile.

"You could say that. Or you could say that we just gave you what you really needed."

Sam can see the angry line of the man's lips and it makes him cold, shiver.

"Stop hiding, Sam. Stop pretending you don't know what happened in your apartment. Or in that bar. Or what happened all those months ago in the bedroom with your sweet, little Jessica. It's unsettling."

"Don't you talk about Jess, don't you..."

But the yellow-eyed-man stops him by raising a finger again, threatening and strong enough to make Sam silent.

"You mark my words, son. When I call, you better answer."

Sam blinks, hears footsteps behind him. When he blinks again, the man is gone. Sam swivels around, afraid that he's still dreaming, still seeing things, but it's Dean who walks up to him, with his brows furrowed, biting down on his lips and real.

Dean.

For a second Sam is so relieved he wants to sob with it. The tension almost pushing his body to cramp, seeps out of him and leaves him tired and breathless and with an ache in his head.

Dean stops before he opens the door of the car and Sam follows his line of vision, sees two little boys sitting in another car, playing with action figures. Sam's eyes shift back to Dean, back to the look on Dean's face.

He's seen that look on Dean's face before, in the diner, and he vaguely wonders what it means.

"Hey, you okay?" Dean asks as he catches Sam looking and Sam is sure that he doesn't imagine the blush he can see on Dean's cheeks. But Dean keeps looking at him, concern obvious in his eyes and Sam suddenly notices that his hands are still holding his head, like they're trying to keep it on his body; a weird habit that's only a side-effect from the vision.

"Yeah, just got a headache."

Dean nods shortly and it's then that Sam can see the change in Dean. Can see the vibrating anger just underneath the surface.

Sam wants to ask, wants desperately to know, but he can't just yet, doesn't trust his voice just yet and how much he could still keep in, could still keep a secret if he started talking now.

He's shaken to the core, spooked, and still so angry that his hands can't stop shaking.

At least that's what he tells himself.

 

~*~ 9 ~*~

 

Dean can tell that he's scaring Sam. Can tell by the way Sam keeps throwing him glances, biting down on his lip, and shuffling with his feet. He's kicked the gas for the last hundred miles and not spoken one word, but he's trying not to freak out, trying to make himself face what he has to do, only first he wants to get as many miles between them and the demon-bitch.

It's the second time since Sam is with him that he's driving his baby on edge and Dean has the vague feeling that it's not going to be the last.

"Dean," Sam finally says next to him, low and worried and scared.

Dean bites his tongue and refuses to talk. Refuses to acknowledge how much his name coming out Sam's mouth troubles him. How much it throws him off balance.

From the distance, he had always imagined how Sam would sound when he was happy, or angry, or excited. How his laugh sounded when he saw something funny, how his whisper sounded when he was telling a secret. But never, not once, did Dean allow himself to imagine how his name would sound out of Sam's mouth.

And now he can't take it.

"Dean, please," Sam says it again.

Dean takes the next exit and parks the car at the side of the road. He doesn't tell Sam to get out, but Sam gets it either way, follows Dean a few feet down the road.

"Drink it," Dean says and he holds out a flask to Sam, once silver but now scratched and buckled, still warm from the inside of his leather jacket.

"What is that? What are you ...?" Sam shoots him a look, instinctively taking a step back. His words faintly echo around them, nobody there but them.

Dean motions at Sam again, doesn't lower the flask, doesn't avert his eyes. "I'm doing what I should have done two fucking days ago! Now fucking drink it!"

Sam's eyes travel down to Dean's hand, down to the flask and finally, he reaches out for it. Dean can't say if he's more glad or disappointed that Sam would just do something like that. He doesn't know him, doesn't know Dean like Dean knows him, and yet he already trusts him so much.

"Is that water?" Sam asks, when he had taken a sip and given the flask back and nothing happens. Nothing.

"Holy water." Dean breathes out. After almost two hours he allows himself to breathe out.

"What does it ... do?" Sam is still holding himself like he's afraid and eventually Dean realizes that Sam has just seen a girl with black eyes who could throw them around without lifting a damn finger. Sam had crossed a line sometime during the last few hours he didn't even know existed in the first place.

Dean hopes it at least.

"It tells me if you're a demon or not."

Dean watches Sam go pale in a second.

"And what am I?" Sam asks, breathless, like he doesn't know the answer. Like he's afraid of it.

"No demon."

"Well, that's good." He doesn't sound reassured, gulps heavily, his eyes fluttering over Dean's skin.

"You wanna tell me what happened back at Missouri's?" Dean asks, putting the flask away.

Sam startles, but it's second to late and Dean notices it. He doesn't say anything. Just sets his mouth in a thin line and waits for Sam to start talking.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Sam can't meet Dean's eyes and Dean's almost embarrassed for him he's lying so poorly.

Dean sighs. "Don't lie to me, Sammy."

"I'm ... not."

"Come on, man." Dean makes a pleading face, takes a step towards the other man. "Don't lie about stuff like that. We're in this shit together, alright?"

"Yeah, and why is that exactly?" Sam draws back, gets angry now. "Why are you helping me, anyway? Why do you even care?"

Dean can hear the sound of another car in the distance and his mind rushes through all the possibilities on instinct: cops, feds, demons. And they could all come here for him or Sam.

"It's my goddamn job, okay?" Dean bites back. "And don't change the fucking topic!"

For a second they're just glaring at each other, Dean can see Sam's chest heaving, can see his clenched fists.

"Who was that demon? What did she know about you? What happened while I was out? Where did she go?"

He can see Sam's jaw tighten, but Sam doesn't answer and Dean's running out of patience.

"Is this about the dead guy in your apartment?! Does she know what really happened there?"

Sam's stance changes in an instant. He straightens, his face locks down completely. "I thought you weren't gonna ask about that," he tells Dean coldly. "I thought you knew it wasn't my fault."

"Well, I have nothing to go on here!" Dean throws his hands in the air. "A fucking demon, a DEMON, is showing up and saying all these weird things and you know what Sam? With all the things you looked when you saw her, it wasn't surprise!"

There's something showing in Sam's eyes now and Dean knows he's getting further.

"You're not even supposed to know about their existence and then you suddenly chat up a storm with one of them. And since it's my ass on the line too, I'd really love to know what the fuck is going on here, Sam!"

"Shut up," Sam whispers, but Dean's not done.

"Because if I just bailed a cold blooded killer out of jail, I think I deserve to know that!" Dean doesn't mean it, doesn't really think that, but he can't seem to stop. "So what the hell is going on, Sam? Is this about the dead guy?"

"No!" Sam takes a step back and emotions race like waves over his face. Dean knows that he's gone too far. He knows this even before Sam says the next words, shouts them with a pained voice that stings in Dean's heart.

"It's about my girlfriend burning alive on the ceiling! It's about her dead eyes staring at me from above! It's about her blood dripping on my face!"

Dean feels a lump in his throat and something burning in his stomach. "She what?"

"Jess didn't just die in a fire. Something ... killed her. I swear to God," Sam whispers the last words with tears in his eyes, his body sagging in itself.

"When I came home one day, she didn't answer when I called her," he starts telling the story, a story Dean knows too well how it will end. "I thought she was out or under the shower. I went into our bedroom, lay down on our bed, closed my eyes. I could feel something wet dripping on my cheeks. When I looked up ... She was ... hanging there, her legs and arms twisted, her eyes open, her mouth ... like she was screaming. And she was burning."

"Sam." Dean feels every word like a punch to his guts.

This isn't what he fought for, this isn't ... this isn't what he sacrificed for.

"I tried to get her down," Sam keeps on talking, his voice shaking with the pain all those memories cause. "But the fire was too hot. I didn't ... I couldn't save her. I couldn't save her."

Dean is sure he's going to be sick. He feels his knees go weak underneath him and his neck starting to heat up. His stomach turns in painful waves.

This isn't fair. All his ... his goddamn life he fought for this, for Sam to be safe, for Sam not to have to go through this.

"Dean?"

Dean can see him reach out, wearily, and he wants to apologize, wants to tell Sam that he's sorry for everything that happened, that he's sorry for his girlfriend’s death.

Dean thinks about the pictures he has seen of her. Thinks about the blonde hair and nice smile he has seen and somehow he only realizes now how much she must have meant to Sam.

Sam had never talked about her, never mentioned her, but the haunted look in his eyes - Dean understands now that part of it must be because of her.

But he says nothing of that, only straightens up as good as he can. "Gotta show you something," he tells Sam instead and leads them back to the car.

Sam follows him trustfully and Dean can still see the marks of tears on his face and he's just so goddamn sorry.

The car he heard before whooshes past them, doesn't stop, doesn't slow down, when Dean opens the trunk of the Impala.

And then opens the secret layer.

"Holy shit," Sam whispers next to him.

Dean shuffles through the stuff, touches the huge package of salt, the silver knives, the guns. "This is what I do," he explains gravely. "I hunt things. Monsters, ghosts, now apparently demons too. There are all real. Almost every story you ever heard, has been, at some point, somewhere, real."

Dean looks up to Sam, looks for surprise there but there isn't any and Dean didn't really expect it by now. He only finds the look of a man's face whose ground had been pulled from under his feet months ago.

"I got into it through my dad," Dean goes on, turns to his bullets, the bottles of holy water he also keeps there. "My dad raised me in this life. And he ... my mom died when I was little. I don't remember much. Just my dad screaming at me to run out of the house as fast as I could. And then there was fire. A lot of ... fire."

Dean searches Sam's eyes for the next words. "My mom died, burning alive on the ceiling. Just like your girlfriend did."

Sam's brows shoot up and his mouth opens in horror.

"Ever since then, all my dad lived for was killing that son of a bitch who did it."

"Do you know who it was?" Sam asks shakily.

"A demon." Dean thinks about what he had come to know the last year, what he had read in his father's journal. It's still ... it's too late. Sam's girlfriend is dead. He's too late to save Sam from this.

"It's a demon. With yellow eyes. Powerful." Dean closes his eyes for a second, can't shake the memory that is haunting him. The demon talking to him through his father's mouth, looking at him through his father's eyes. Dean could have killed him back then, could have done what his father had been begging him to do, shoot him, shoot his father and the demon with him. But Dean hadn't. He'd been too weak, the thought of losing his father too hard to work through and do the right thing. It could have been over. It would still have been too late, but it could have been over by now.

Sam's sharp intake of breath pulls Dean out of his thoughts.

"You've seen him, right?" Dean asks. "The Yellow-Eyed-Demon?"

Sam nods, his face blank, his eyes red and Dean doesn't ask him where and when yet, he's still got time for that. "Is there something ... that can kill him?"

"Yeah," Dean breathes out. "A colt. A special one. A gun that can kill anything, even things like him. I've had it. But now I've lost it." Dean thinks about his father and about the colt vanishing when his dad died. Dean fears that he knows exactly where the colt is. But he doesn't tell Sam.

What he does is closing the trunk and turning to the other man, a sincere look on his face. "I'm sorry that he killed your girlfriend. I would have given everything to kill that son of a bitch before he got to her. But he did and I'm sorry for that."

Sam only nods, his nostrils flaring.

"But I can promise you: That demon will pay for what he's done to us. I will kill him. If it's the last thing I do. I will kill him."

 

~*~ 10 ~*~

 

Dean wonders absentmindedly why he's lying on the floor. It's dark and the flicker of the streetlight outside is really starting to grate on his nerves. Then he hears Sam giggle beside him and remembers the beer in his hand. It's not cold anymore, but still damp against his skin.

Sam is only coming down from another laughing fit, wheezing and coughing, and Dean tries to figure out how they both got so drunk that they ended up laying on the dirty floor of yet another motel room, laughing their asses off like schoolgirls at a slumber party.

Then he remembers Sam's dead girlfriend and a certain demon that killed her and thinks ‘oh, yeah, that's right’.

They hadn't made it very far after their stop, too riled up with the new turn of events. It had been a long damn day and when Dean had suggested they'd get drunk, Sam hadn't even missed a beat before he'd agreed.

So they'd checked into a room for the night, stocked up Sam with a few clothes to change and the usual toiletry stuff at the local Wal-mart and then gotten themselves a nice load of alcohol.

 

"Dean?" Sam whispers, hesitantly, and that makes Dean move his head to catch the uncertain look on the other man's face.

"Hm?"

"There's something else I have to tell you." He looks away and Dean thinks he's not nearly drunk enough for another shocking confession.

"I'm listening," he drawls anyway, shifts his eyes back to the ceiling.

"I have ... I have these nightmares," Sam starts and Dean can't help but to start laughing.

"No, really? Like I haven't noticed."

But Sam doesn't laugh. He only takes another deep breath and goes on. "Sometimes, those dreams come true."

Dean waits for the punch line. Waits for Sam to burst out laughing and tell him he’s joking. But the laugh never comes. "Come again?" Dean asks and suddenly feels a lot more sober.

"I ... before Jess died, I was ... dreaming about her death. Days before it happened. Exactly how it happened."

Dean stays silent. Grips the bottle in his hand so tight his knuckles are white.

"If I had paid just a little ... attention, I could have saved her." Dean hears Sam's voice break and suddenly regrets all the beers and the half bottle of jack he gave him.

"It's okay," Dean answers finally, although his throat hurts with the words and his stomach feels like it wants to bolt again.

But maybe that's just the alcohol. Maybe he means it.

"You mean that?" Sam whispers into the space between them, like he can hear Dean's thoughts and Dean turns his face and finds the other man's eyes on him.

"Yeah." Their eyes lock and Dean suddenly feels sure with it. "Sam, you couldn't have done anything. That sonovabitch killed my mother and my dad and I spent our whole lives trying to kill that bastard. Do you really think you could have done something?"

Dean sees the words sink into Sam, sees him relax, little by little. He just wishes it were really that easy. That words could rid him from his own guilt like it does with Sam.

"Thank you," Sam whispers again and for a second he looks like he wants to say something else. But then the Almighty seems happy with Dean today and shuts Sam up, pours comfortable silence over the room once again.

 

"So you're gay?" Dean asks from his spot on the floor, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. They haven't said anything for a long time and for a second Dean believes Sam's fallen asleep already.

"What?"

Dean can hear Sam turn around, hears the shuffle of clothes and the beer bottle being placed on the floor next to his head.

He doesn't even know where that question comes from, suddenly, but he's said it and now he wants to know the answer. "The demon, she said ... ." Dean gestures with his hands, doesn't meet Sam's eyes.

It's when he hears Sam chuckle next to him that he turns his head.

"It's bisexual, Dean, look it up."

'Smug little bastard', Dean thinks and considers getting up and kicking his ass again, but then Sam turns his eyes to the ceiling and anyway, this is actually quite nice, lying here, feeling the alcohol gently buzzing through his veins, Sam not far away.

"My first crush was actually a guy," Sam begins to explain and his voice changes slightly, like he's smiling into the words. "He ... it was just someone who'd dialed the wrong number. But we talked for like an hour or so and that's when I knew."

Sam huffs a laugh, like he just remembered something. "I don't even know the sound of his voice anymore. Thought I'd never forget it that time. But I still remember how it made me feel. Had a hard on the whole time we were talking too, but ... it was more than that, you know?"

Dean knows that Sam had turned his head towards him, can feel Sam's eyes linger on his own skin, but he doesn't say anything.

But Dean remembers.

He remembers Sam's voice at the time, higher than it is now, but already cracking around the edges and with an energetic enthusiasm swinging under the tone. He remembers the night with a sharp tug at his heart, how he hadn't been able to get rid of the smell of the dead body he had found in the basement of an old hotel. A kid, barely sixteen, who he had searched for two weeks. He hadn't been able to help him, hadn't been able to stop the monster whose name he couldn't even spell from feeding on that kid, from killing him.

He had been alone those days. His father off to god knows where and normally he would have just packed up and gone to the roadhouse for a couple of days, but somehow, that night, his finger had hovered over Sam's number, saved in his cell, although he never had planned on actually calling him.

Dean remembers his own beating heart when Sam had answered the phone on the third ring.

 

Sam gives up when Dean doesn't say anything, won't even look at him and Dean can see Sam shift out of the corner of his eyes. "Jess was only the second girl I've ever been with," Sam whispers into the dark. "The first person I loved."

'If you'd stayed with us, it would have been me' Dean thinks bitterly, and it doesn't even make sense, he's not even meaning it that way, but Sam's words hit something deep inside him.

"I don't even know why I'm telling you this," Sam laughs awkwardly, a blush creeping over his cheeks.

"Yeah, well, me neither."

 

It's not much later when Dean feels the hard floor starting to slowly kill his back and with a groan he gets back on his feet, swaying with alcohol and tiredness.

"Time for bed, Sammy," he announces to the room at large, already stumbling in the direction of the bathroom.

"I kinda like it when you call me that," Sam whispers and makes Dean's inside flip flop.

Dean ignores it; pushes the bathroom door open without a word and even manages his bathroom routine without tripping over his own feet.

He ignores Sam on his way back to the room, to his bed, although he can feel the other man's eyes on him, sitting on his own bed now, can always feel it, that intense stare, every goddamn second.

But Sam doesn’t say anything, only takes his turn in the bathroom silently.

When he comes back, Dean isn't already asleep. He’s lying on his back, face tilted to the side, but his eyes are open when Sam makes the few steps into the room again and their eyes meet.

It's a second or more, that everything hangs in the balance.

Sam's just standing in the middle of the room, equal distance between his bed and Dean's and it could go either way. Dean feels it. Dean sees it in Sam's look, in his stance, in the pace of his breathing moving his chest.

But the moment goes by and nothing happens. Sam blinks, tilts his head and then turns for his own bed, switches the light off before he's lying down.

"Night Dean," his voice vibrates through the air and Dean shudders, releasing the breath he was holding since Sam had set foot into the room.

"Night Sammy," he answers and wills his body to calm down.


	3. Hunters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're always hiding it," Sam whispers and lets his fingertips feel over the bump of the pendant that is hidden under Dean's shirt.  
> "It's private," Dean grumbles.  
> "From your brother?"  
> "Yeah, " Dean answers and his voice breaks.

~*~ 1 ~*~

 

Dean's getting uncomfortable. All morning Sam's eyes have never left him, and not in that weird flirting kind of way, but more like Dean is a terribly interesting puzzle Sam's been trying to figure out. Dean hates it.

He manages to escape that stare for some time while he goes through his morning routine, but once he's out of the bathroom, Sam is sitting on his bed, looking up with his puppy eyes and clearly hesitates, like Dean's not gonna like what Sam will say next.

Well, Dean's right.

"I'm sorry about your loss," Sam tells him, his voice gentle and sympathetic.

Dean growls low in his throat and turns away from Sam, busying himself with getting his clothes on, carefully putting the necklace under the shirt, hiding it from Sam’s curious eyes. He doesn't want to be reminded of his father, doesn't need the image of his corpse burning on that stack. He can still smell it anyway. "I'm fine, Sam. Alright? I said I'm fine," Dean answers roughly.

"I wasn't talking about your father."

Dean spins around at that, but Sam's gaze doesn't falter.

"There's someone else right? Like a brother or a sister. Or a kid ... I see the look in your eyes when you see other kids, Dean."

"Shut up, Sam," is Dean's answer because now Sam is taking this one step too far. One step too close to the truth.

"Dean, come on. Don't shut me out. I feel like I don't know anything as it is. Please."

"I said no, Sam," Dean says again, harsher this time, "this isn't any of your goddamn business."

Sam's face falls and Dean wonders why the hell he cares so much, why he's so insistent for Dean to spill his guts.

"Get ready. We're leaving in ten." Dean doesn't turn around to watch Sam's reaction. He throws his dirty underwear into his duffel and leaves their room, his head still throbbing with a hangover from hell and the feeling of riding a rollercoaster without a fucking seatbelt on.

 

When Sam finally gets into the car, he's still brooding and Dean wants to hate it, wants to get angry and tell Sam he's such a girl, but all he can feel is a distant ache at the idea that someone is caring about him enough to get angry like this.

They drive in silence for awhile; Sam is busy staring out of the window and he won't even look at Dean.

Dean manages the silent treatment for only six miles until he's shuffling for a tape and turning the volume up.

Sam grunts next to him. "You do know that they kept making music even after you were born, right?" he says, taking a look at the old shoebox of cassette tapes Dean has in his glove department.

"Driver picks the music, Sammy," he shoots back but inwardly he's glad that Sam is at least talking to him.

Sam wordlessly keeps on sorting through the box and Dean can see a raised eyebrow or a frown every now and then, even a small smile at one point and Dean wants to ask what music Sam had found that made him smile but he can't. There's a ... tension between them, something awkward and Dean doesn't know how to handle it.

He makes it another seven miles and then he can't believe he's giving in to a grown man looking like a sulking five year old.

"It's a brother."

In the corner of his eyes he can see Sam's head spin around, but Sam doesn't ask 'what?'. He already knows what Dean's talking about.

"I ... my Dad and I, we ..." Dean stops. He had never talked about it with anyone else. Mulled it over in his head, dreamed about it, sure, but saying the words out loud, it's harder than he had thought.

But Sam waits patiently.

"He couldn't live with us. It was too ... . When my mom died ... Dad couldn't handle the two of us. He deserved a better life, a chance for a good family. We weren't like that."

"Why didn't you go with him? Stay together?" Sam asks from the side, his voice low and intimate.

And isn't that what Dean has been asking himself everyday?

"I wasn't gonna leave my dad alone. He had lost ... I wasn't gonna leave him too." Dean swallows past the lump in his throat.

"But you still miss him," Sam whispers next to him and it isn't a question.

"Every day."

 

"So, where are we going?" Sam asks two miles later, like the thought has only just occurred to him.

"You ever been to the Grand Canyon?" Dean smirks at the confused look on Sam's face. "Nah, just driving around. We're on the run. The Feds are looking for the two of us by now, not to start on the demon-chick. All we can do is stay on the move until a friend I called finds out more."

"So we have help?" Sam asks. "There are more people like you?"

Dean nods. "They're all hunters. And some of them can probably help."

"So," Dean goes on and grins at Sam. "I just saw a sign a mile ago, there's a fair. You wanna go to a fair?"

Sam's splitting grin is worth the snort and the eye-rolling he earns for that. "Dude! Somehow you keep thinking I'm a friggin' ten-year-old!"

Dean just shrugs. "Hey, a lot of food and fast rides, what's not to love?"

Sam huffs." Yeah, try the friggin' clowns, man."

"You're afraid of clowns?" Dean is seriously surprised and he hates the hit it does to his stomach.

Sam nods absentmindedly. "Yeah. But I remember the first time my parents had taken us to a fair. I must have been eight or nine or so. There was this other kid, older than me, maybe eleven? And we kept spending the whole day together. I felt like the coolest kid in town that he wanted to hang around with me of all people. I think we rode every rollercoaster there was. And we kept eating so much, I think I puked when I was home that night."

Sam laughs at the memory and glances to Dean and Dean does everything he can to keep his face neutral. "So you liked it?"

"One of my best childhood memories." He sees Sam shrug, catches him blushing slightly. "I begged my mom to go back the next day. I begged her so much that she finally took me. But the other boy wasn't there that day. Man, I think I don't even know his name anymore."

Dean only nods and tries to keep the memories at bay, tries to stop his mind from going back to that day and to the glowing face of the eight year old boy who'd been looking at him with worship in his eyes. He'd puked that night too, his stomach not used to so much candy. And the next day, his father had driven them out of town, neither of them speaking about that day ever again.

 

~*~ 2 ~*~

 

Sam has been sleeping for at least two hours now; cramped up in the seat, his head leaning between the headrest and the window, his mouth slack. He doesn’t look peaceful, not really. His shoulders are hunched, his eyebrows furrowed and his hands are twitching. But at least he’s sleeping now and not staying awake, trying to avoid the nightmares. Dean doesn’t know how long he can stand the haunted look in Sam’s eyes any longer without going crazy with the urge to do something about that.

Dean shut off the radio a couple of miles ago. It’s okay that way, silent in his car, Sam’s deep breathing steady and soothing.

Dean watches the road stretch ahead of them, miles and miles, hours after hours. He could get used to this. To Sam being at his side, to drive with him across the country. Maybe live their lives on the road, going from hunt to hunt, staying in crappy motel rooms together, eating bad diner food and saving people.

For a wonderful, blissful moment, Dean imagines that. Let’s himself fall in the idea of it. Of how it would be not being alone. Having someone to talk to in the early morning hours and late at night; having someone watching his back during a hunt. Of having Sam right at his side, close enough to just reach out.

But it’s just that, one blissful moment, and Dean knows he shouldn’t wish something like that. This isn’t permanent, can’t turn into something more after all these years running in the different direction.

Dean grips the wheel a little tighter, shocked by his own thoughts.

Something more.

That wording makes something tremble low in his guts. He wants to wipe it away, pretend he didn’t mean it this way but deep down … he’s not so sure.

Maybe Sam’s flirting is finally getting to him, maybe it’s the sudden change from being alone almost his whole life and now having Sam crushing his personal space.

Dean shakes his head jerkily, tries to stop his own mind from going there. He hasn’t gotten laid in a while and Sam is always looking at him like he’s a Happy Meal and that’s it.

With a clenched jaw, Dean promises himself that he’s not getting worked up over something like this, something that doesn’t mean anything really, something that will go away soon enough.

 

Sam stirs next to him, whimpers, and Dean knows that the nightmares are coming back. Dean gives Sam another minute before he reaches out and shakes him, his own hand meeting warm skin under Sam's shirt. His fingertips slipped under the sleeve just barely, but it's enough to make Dean falter a second, to make him let his hand linger just long enough until Sam is blinking himself awake, his haunted eyes only calming down when he meets Dean's eyes.

They're going to find a nice bar and distract themselves with some alcohol and some ladies tonight, Dean decides.

 

~*~ 3 ~*~

 

When Dean opens the door to the local bar, a mixture of greasy food and alcohol attacks their noses and Dean sees Sam grimace at the smell. Dean chuckles and pushes Sam through the door, only realizing he has his hand to the small of Sam's back when the other man glances around to him and blushes slightly.

Dean draws back immediately, curses himself. Sam seems to have sort of a crush on him as it is, the last thing Dean needs to do is encourage him.

Dean swallows heavily and takes after Sam, watches him being swallowed by the weird twilight of a bar like this and the deep grumble, laughter and the clincking of bottles and glasses that echo between the walls. Sam turns around as if to make sure Dean is still following and Dean finds himself closing the distance on instinct, walking through the room just inches behind Sam.

Dean stops suddenly when he sees a familiar face among the guests.

"Who is that guy?" Sam asks under his breath and his eyes flicker nervously between the guy at the table and Dean. Dean feels kind of proud that Sam seems to be such a good judge of character.

"Another hunter," Dean answers but he knows that man is more than just that. He is dangerous. Dean and John had worked with him twice. He is a damn good hunter, sure, but he has a serious edge to it.

Dean had always liked working with him, in a twisted way, because he'd always felt better, stronger. But now, with Sam right beside him, the idea of meeting him again makes all of Dean's alarm bells ring.

"Dean Winchester," the other man drawls as soon as he catches them looking. He spreads his lips in a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes and raises his bottle to them before he takes a sip.

"Gordon Walker."

The hunter motions for them to sit and Dean can't do anything but that, can't risk making the other man, the other hunter, suspicious.

Sam draws a chair back on his own and sits down, but Dean can feel the tension coming off of Sam like he could reach out and grab it.

“I heard about your old man,“ Gordon tells Dean, not even making an attempt to offer his condolences. “He was a damn good hunter.“

Dean nods, wonders if that’s all people will ever say about John. A good hunter. Like he wasn’t a father or a human, too. Dean swallows the bile that rises in his throat at the thought. Maybe people could only say the first thing about him because John had done a really bad job on the other two.

"Who's the kid?" Gordon lets his eyes linger on Sam a little and then lets them wander back to Dean, like Sam isn’t even there.

Sam is about to snap. Dean can tell by the way his breathing has changed, can see the clench of his jaw.

So Dean does the only thing he can think of and pushes a leg up against Sam’s, tries to reassure him, and tell him to just follow along.

"I’m on a case. Helping him to get rid of a little problem,“ Dean tells Gordon, keeping it purposefully vague.

"Need help with that?"

Dean shakes his head but suddenly, all he can think of is the warmth of Sam's body seeping into his skin. He feels the strong muscles pressing up to him, even though their contact is only marg.

It's like the moment earlier in the car again. His synopses seem to snap as soon as he's getting just a little bit too close to Sam and for a moment, Dean seriously considers if they're cursed. If something strong and evil has laid a spell on them, like friggin' magnets that push each other away with brutal force, but if you turn them just slightly, they clash together and no force on earth could tear them apart.

"You sure?" Gordon insists and Dean leans back in his chair when the waitress comes and places bottles of beer in front of Sam and him which he didn't even see Gordon order.

Gordon raises his bottle for a toast. "To killing all the supernatural shit that's wandering the earth," he says and his eyes are glinting dangerously as he looks at Sam a second too long for Dean's taste.

Dean wonders absentmindedly if his father had let him be around hunters like Gordon if things had been different. If it hadn't just been his dad and him. If John could have left him back at motel rooms with someone else to look after, to occupy him with. He doubts it.

"Dude, your hands are shaking. You okay?" Gordon says, too loud and too concerned for him to be real.

But Dean's eyes shoot up to Sam, finds that Gordon's right and Sam's hands are trembling a little.

"Ah, yeah, no," Sam stutters, "Just the lack of sleep, I guess."

Sam blushes, avoids Dean's eyes and then he gets up, mumbles "I'll be right back" and heads to the restrooms.

Dean completely ignores the urge to run after him.

 

"So who's this kid really?" Gordon says as soon as Sam is out of earshot, his eyes fixating on Dean.

"He's really just a kid I'm helping," Dean gives the same explanation, his expression bored.

"You fuck him?" Gordon puts the bottle to his lips and Dean needs all his acting skills to not react.

"You know I wouldn't give a shit if you did," Gordon explains, the closest thing to an apology that the man is capable of. He sighs when Dean still doesn't say anything. "Look, no matter what you want with the kid; he's a burden to you. Hunting is a one man job, not a team gig."

"We've worked with you before," Dean points out and Gordon just shrugs his shoulders.

"That's different. You drag him around with you, eventually he'll get you killed." He raises a finger at Dean. "Mark my words."

 

Dean can feel Sam behind him just a second before he can hear him and this time, he's actually glad for this freakish talent. Gordon drops the topic instantly, doesn't seem to have the urge to engage Sam in this particular conversation.

Sam looks better now, calmer and Dean hopes it's really just the lack of sleep and Sam's not getting sick. They really do not need that on top of everything.

Dean throws Sam a look anyway, raises an eyebrow, silently asking if Sam's okay and Dean isn't really surprised when Sam understands and nods.

Dean catches the smirk on Gordon's lips when he turns back around.

 

They drink two more beers; Gordon entertaining them with hunting stories. Dean is sure at least half of them are made up, and although Gordon is definitely a sick son of a bitch, he feels himself relax a little and when he looks at Sam he can see that he's relaxing too.

"You're doing a job right now?" Dean asks Gordon between two gulps of beer.

Gordon nods lazily and sits back, a cocky look on his face.

"Pretty heavy stuff actually. I'm after a guy who works with demons. Real demons, Dean. And that son of a bitch is betraying his own race and works with them."

Dean nods in acknowledgement but doesn't really care all that much. He has too much on his own shoulders right now, by god, and he knows Ellen is aware of the new demon problem and spreading it in the roadhouse. There are enough hunters who can take those jobs.

Dean knocks on the table once and stands up, catches Sam's eyes. "Just going to the restroom. Gonna be back in a sec."

 

~*~ 4 ~*~

 

Dean almost wants to go back to the table as soon as he reaches the restroom door. There's a weird feeling tingling down the back of his neck, like he doesn't want to leave Sam alone with the fellow hunter. Like he doesn't want to leave Sam alone at all.

Dean shrugs the feeling away and forces himself not to think about it. This is ridiculous. He's getting into deep already and he's not doing a bang up job handling it so far.

He takes care of business as quick as possible though, washes his hands and doesn’t waste time to dry them and kicks the swing-door open with his foot.

 

He sees it the second he's out of the restroom. An empty table where Gordon and Sam should have been. Bottles and glasses still standing on it like they would come back any second.

Dean doesn't need to let his eyes wander through the room to be sure they're not in here anymore.

Instinct, burning low and hot in his guts, tells him that something is wrong. That he has to find Sam fast.

 

Dean makes it five steps into the room before he sees the two cops. They're wearing similar small-town-police outfits and that trained grim but bored look Dean has seen one too many times. And Dean doesn't need to get closer to know that the picture they're holding up for the bartender shows him.

"Sonovabitch," Dean curses silently and turns on his heels.

He makes it back into the men's room, locks the door behind him and hopes he has two more minutes to figure out what the hell to do.

Dean winces when he spots the small window just above one of the sinks, knowing, that that would be the only way out for him.

"Sonovabitch!", he curses again, but doesn't waste any more time, climbs up the dirty sink and pushes the window open.

It's not easy, old and rusty and probably not been opened in years, but Dean manages, gets it all the way open so he can climb out. He almost doesn't fit, a window like that not made for a man his size, but he doesn't quit, can already feel the bruises forming on his shoulders and hips. But he's outside a minute later, with noone close enough to have seen him and he's breathing fresh air.

Sam.

Dean's eyes skim over the parking lot he's standing right now. If Sam's still here somewhere, he shouldn't be hard to spot.

And he isn't.

Dean's heart skips a beat when he sees him, all across the parking lot, standing by a dark car, half hidden under some trees and ... waving.

"What the ... ?" Dean mumbles and walks up to meet Sam there, who looks a little out of breath but okay, fine, alive.

"Jesus, why'd you leave?" Dean asks as soon as he's close enough so Sam can hear him.

"There were cops, man. There was no time to ..."

"Where the fuck is Gordon?" Dean stops him midsentence.

"Right here, Dean," he hears the answer, just as he hears the tiny click of a gun being cocked.

Dean freezes and can see Sam doing the same thing. Sam can't see the gun pointing directly at his head, but Dean's sure he can feel it.

You always feel the gun when it's pointing right at you.

"What the fuck, Gordon?" Dean says, not daring to move.

"I'm sorry, Dean," the other hunter answers and sounds almost sincere. His hand is steady and his eyes never leave Sam's face. "I'm afraid I have to take your boytoy with me."

"What?" The words puff out of Sam's mouth and Dean's eyes flicker back to him.

Sam's eyes are wide, his chest heaving; Sam's scared to death.

"What do you want with him?" Dean asks and his voice drops an octave with anger.

"You don't really know what he is, do you, Dean? What he did?" Gordon's eyes glare at Dean while he says the words and then travel back to Sam's face.

Dean shudders at the hate, the pure disgust he can see in them.

"People are talking about you, my friend. Demons are talking."

"So we're starting believing in demons, now?" Dean growls, his eyes still flickering between Gordon, the gun and Sam.

"You know the guy in the apartment, he was actually ...," Gordon starts explaining, looking up to Dean, but then there's a sudden movement, noises, and the next thing Dean knows, Sam's pushing Gordon, the gun flying high above their heads.

“Sam!” Dean shouts when he sees Gordon placing a nasty punch to the other man’s rips and Sam only tumbles backwards, lands hard on his side.

But Sam doesn’t stay passive, kicks and punches until Dean has reached them and jumps at Gordon.

The two men roll to the side, Dean on top, and he has enough leverage to pin Gordon down.

And then the anger gets the best of him.

Dean doesn’t care what he does, every hit on Gordon’s face makes him feel better, everytime Gordon groans in pain it lets something lose inside Dean.

“Dean,” Sam says from the side, breathy and shaken up.

“Dean,” he repeats, louder, when Dean doesn’t listen, only keeps on throwing punches at the defenceless man underneath him.

A hand touches Dean’s shoulder and Dean’s startles, jerks around to find Sam looking at him, alarm in his eyes. “The cops,” he reminds Dean, nods to the bar behind them.

A second passes by before Dean’s head is clear enough again and he get’s up.

“What about him?” Sam asks, a mix of anger and fear in his voice, looking down at Gordon.

“They’re gonna find him soon enough,” Dean simply answers and goes for the carkeys in his pocket.

“Let’s go, come on.”

 

~*~ 5 ~*~

 

Dean stops to a halt eventually, parks the car in a dark corner of another no-name motel parking lodge and when the engine dies he looks at Sam for the first time since they fled Gordon and his crazy accusations.

Sam looks like Dean feels, a weird mix of shock and excitement, and he's panting like they had been running, not driving, the adrenaline still riding them both.

"You okay?" Dean asks and Sam nods jerkily before he meets Dean's eyes.

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess."

But Sam is shivering slightly, goosebumps on his arms and Dean isn't sure that this is just the adrenaline and the rush of being almost killed by a lunatic. Sam's skin is a little pale and Dean can see bruises blooming already.

If he sees Gordon again, he's gonna kill that son of a bitch.

"Gonna get us a room and then check you up, okay? Wait here," Dean orders and only sees Sam's nod in his peripheral vision because he's already leaving the car, heading for the front desk of this little motel.

 

"Okay, let me look."

Sam is sitting on his bed, watching Dean with his weirdly fox-like eyes. He's still riled up, Dean can see it and Dean is surprised that he himself is still feeling the adrenaline. But it has been a long time since Dean had hunted with anyone else, had dealt with danger and the threat of death, aiming for someone other than him. Someone he cared about.

"It's nothing. Just scratches," Sam tells him but Dean makes him lose his shirt anyway, using the determination on his face that tells people not to mess with him.

Even if Sam looks slightly annoyed, it works with him.

"Seems you're lucky," Dean says, "nothing but scratches." And Dean's thorough, lets his fingers glide over skin, muscules and bones and feels for every bump that should not be there, something that would tell him about a broken bone or rip. Sam's skin feels warm and soft and thankfully nothing else. He takes a closer look to the bruisers and shallow wounds. But they're nothing but that, shallow. A cut on Sam's neck is a little bit deeper but nothing that wouldn't heal on it's own.

"I told you," Sam answers him but his voice seems off and his chest is still moving with deeper, faster breaths than normal.

"Okay." Dean looks up to Sam from his knees and meets dark eyes, shifting and ... glowing, and if Dean wasn't such an expert in demons ... a lesser hunter would have gone for the gun by now.

Dean smirks at the sight of Sam, flushed and obviously turned on. "There might be a hunter inside you somewhere, Sammy, got you all worked up, huh?"

Dean get's up from the ground and turns, thinks about heading for the shower when he hears Sam's answer, Sam's croaked "Yeah", and then he feels a hand on is wrist and get's turned around.

Another hand cups his cheek and he feels Sam's presence, hot and strong and inevitable, a second before he feels Sam's lips on his own.

It's a shock and it's not. Dean panics for a second and his instincts tell him to step back but Sam doesn't give him any time to react and his actions shortcircuit all the thoughts left in Dean's brain.

The hand on Dean's wrist lets loose and moves to his hip instead and then he's crowded against the table that stands behind him, bent backwards enough that he loses balance and can't stand on his own anymore. Dean's hands move automatically and clutch on Sam's arms, pulling him closer without intention and the groan in Sam's throat tingles through Dean's whole body.

That's when Dean feels Sam's lips on his own, really feels them this time, kissing him.

Kissing him.

The thought finally makes it through to Dean's brain and into his consciousness, the fact that Sam's kissing him, and it makes him do what every guy in his situation would probably do. He pushes Sam away and throws a punch to his jaw.

 

"I guess I deserved that," Sam speaks first after a long heavy silence, holds his jaw and eyes Dean with an uncertain glance. "I'm sorry, Dean," he whispers and if Dean wasn't so damned confused about what just had happened he would have felt sorry for hitting Sam.

"I ... I guess I read it wrong then." Sam laughs awkwardly and still looks like he's waiting for Dean to throw another punch.

"What?" is the only thing Dean can come up with.

Sam blushes slightly and Dean doesn't think he could feel any more confused and uncomfortable.

"The way you ... sometimes ... look at me. I thought that was ... you know?"

Dean positively gapes at Sam and his mind's running over the things he'd done, said, that could have given him away. But not like ... not like that.

"Okay, look," Sam takes a deep breath and pushes his hands through his hair. The adrenaline seems to have completely seeped out of him and he looks worried now, exhausted and Dean suddenly remembers with a sharp burn in his chest that someone had tried to kill Sam not four hours ago.

"I ... I made a mistake and it won't happen again. I swear." The eyes looking at him remind Dean of a lost little puppy. "I hope this is not gonna ... you know, fuck everything up, but if ... if you want me to leave, I ... Wow, I'm messing up the only good thing I have right now, aren't I?"

"What? No!" Dean stops him right there because this is ridiculous. "Jesus, Sam no ... just ... don't .... you know."

Sam nods and the relief on his face is enough to bury every instinctive anger Dean would have felt for another guy kissing him.

 

They're quiet for the rest of the evening. They shower in turns, pad up the few wounds they both received and then call it an early night. But Dean can see the frown on Sam's face, can practically hear him thinking and when the shifting in the other bed doesn't stop and keeps Dean from his well earned sleep, he finally snaps.

"Okay, Sam, spill it," Dean groans, defeated.

"What?" Sam asks innocently from the other bed.

"You've been brooding all evening so get it out now so we can finally sleep. Is it about that son-of-a-bitch-Gordon? Because I told you, Sam, he's a lunatic and ... "

"It's not about Gordon," Sam whispers and laughs weakly," I mean it should be but it's not."

"Then what?"

He hears Sam hesitate before he finally speaks. "Is it ...," he starts and Dean knows immediately what Sam means with "it", "is it because you're not interested in me or not into guys in general?"

Dean wants to hit Sam again or hit his own head against the bedpost because this is more sharing and caring that he has done in maybe ever. But Sam had nearly been killed and Sam had kissed him and it had been a long damn day and so to his own surprise he just tells the truth.

"I'm not into guys."

As soon as the words leave his mouth, Dean can't shake the feeling that he had chosen the wrong answer.

But Sam doesn't say anything else and finally quiets down in the other bed.

 

It's only right before Dean falls asleep that he starts wondering how the taste of Sam is still on his tongue when he is so sure he had ended the kiss right away.

 

~*~ 6 ~*~

 

The next morning starts too early, with Sam being up and showered; Dean can hear him rummaging around the room and wonders if he had slept at all. Dean just pushes a pillow over his head, tries to catch a little more sleep, but he's practically hearing Sam brooding and noone could sleep with a noise like that.

"Dude,“ Dean growls eventually and gets up.

"Sorry,“ Sam says from his spot at the table where he’s nursing his cup of coffee. It's a to-go from the local starbucks and to his delight Dean sees another surprisingly still steaming cup standing on the table.

"That one's better for me, bitch," Dean says darkly as he trots over to Sam.

"Sure," Sam answers and pushes the cup to Dean's hands just as he's reaching out. Their fingers brush and Dean's pointedly ignoring the jolt that goes through him at the contact.

It's too damn early for this and last night is still way too fresh on his mind.

 

The next few minutes pass by in relative quiet and Dean wants to smack Sam over the head for getting him up so early and then giving him the silent treatment.

Dean takes his time to shower and the rest of his ... morning routine. And it only makes him angrier when in the middle of it, Sam's face comes back into his mind, the hungry look on his face, the feel of his lips.

He's in a worse mood than before when he comes out of the bathroom and Sam seems to sense it. He does what he's told; gets his stuff together, leaves no traces behind for anyone to find. But other than that, he's stepping out of Dean's way as much as possible.

Half an hour later, Dean has had enough.

"Okay, Sam, can we stop this?"

"Stop what?" Sam turns around to him, scrunches his face up.

"This whole ... tiptoeing around each other! It's stupid, alright?"

Sam puts a hand to his face, covers his eyes with it.

"I ... Dean," he stumbles and Dean's irritated. He didn't know that it was getting to Sam like that.

"Dude, it's okay. I'm telling you. You kissed me, you read the signs wrong, it happened. No need to freak out about it, alright?" Dean makes clear again.

"Dean," Sam gasps and his head jerks in tiny movements. Dean can see how the other man's pressing his eyes closed and his whole face is a mask of pain.

The first thought that comes to Dean's mind is that Dean's been trying to let him off easy here and Sam wasn't even listening.

When Sam suddenly crouches down to the floor, Dean finally snaps out of it.

"Sam? Sam, are you okay?“ Dean runs over and gets down beside Sam, grips the other man’s arms to steady him.

Sam crinches and gasps and Dean can’t do nothing but wait and watch him.

It only lasts a few minutes, but Dean can feel Sam’s whole body go slack when it stops.

"What the hell was that?" he asks, as soon as Sam opens his eyes again.

"A vision?" is the hesitant reply.

Dean is pretty sure he can’t hide his shock. "So you're getting them while you're awake too? That's ... terrific!"

Sam ignores Dean’s outburst, slowly gets up on his feet again and sits down on the nearest bed.

“What did you see?“ Dean asks when he feels that he can control his voice again.

Sam sighs. “Kids. I don’t know. They’re my age and they … .“

“They what?“

Sam shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s different every time. This time it was girl who touched her girlfriend.“

Dean barks out a laugh. “You’re serious? You get heavy-ass visions like that about two girls making out?“

He only gets an annoyed glance. “She died Dean. That girl touched her and the girlfriend died.“

“Wow. Sorry.“

Sam looks deep in thoughts. “I tried to see where she was, but I couldn’t. It was only inside someone’s room and there wasn’t any stuff about the town or something.“

"Wait, what?“ Dean huffs. “You wanna find them? Exchange adresses? Be pen friends? What, Sam?“

"No!“ Sam shouts. “But maybe they can tell me what’s wrong with me! Maybe they know something!“

“Know what?!“ Dean doesn’t understand.

“There has to be a reason why I see them! Maybe we’re … connected somehow. And …“ Sam blushes a little.

"And what?“

Sam smiles shyly. "I had a pen pal once when I was a kid and I loved it.“

Dean positively gapes at him. "Seriously?“

"What? The school made us do it!“ Sam defends himself, eyes crinkling in the corners.

 

Dean can remember Sam’s writing at that time. A typical small boy’s handwriting, leaning into all directions, scribbled and hard to read. He remembers his own beating heart whenever the mail man had a letter adressed to 'Dean Smith‘.

It hadn’t been that hard to get his own fake name and the right adress into Sam’s hands.

 

The tension between them is gone, killed by Sam’s comment, and Dean is relieved to see that Sam seems okay again. His eyes are clear and he’s holding himself more relaxed than before.

Dean jerks when his phone suddenly starts to ring and only then does he realizes he had been staring again.

“Hello?“ Dean answers his cell phone, watches Sam watching him out of the corner of his eyes.

“Dean! Hey, how is it going, man?“

“Ash,“ Dean laughs, the other man’s voice always lightening his mood.

"Uhm,“ Ash starts and there’s something off about his voice. “How's your ... friend doing?"

Dean glances to Sam. “He’s fine. We’re good. So, why are you calling?“

“Well, you asked me to do some research for you, right?“

“You found anything?“ Dean asks and Sam must have heard the alarm in his voice. He stands up and walks closer to Dean, a questioning look on his face.

“Uhm, maybe.“

Dean frowns. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?“

"Look Dean, watch your back for me, okay? There's some stuff I gotta proof first, but I might know who the man in the apartment of your Mr. Connor was. Maybe how he died too."

"And? Ash, come on!"

"No, man,“ Ash says on the other end of the line, “I said I'm gonna check some things first. You gotta be pissed if I'm wrong. But I call you as soon as I know, alright?"

"And dude,“ Ash hesitates. “Sorry 'bout your old man."

Dean sighs. "Thanks, Ash."

"You're welcome."

 

"Nothing new,“ he tells Sam when he sees the questioning look on the other man’s face, but he’s already dialing another number.

"There's someone else I can call," he says as soon as he hears the dial-tone. Sam only raises an eyebrow. "Friend of my dad's,“ Dean adds. "Well. Sort of."

 

"Hello?" a gruff voice answers his call.

"Bobby? This is Dean Winchester."

"Good to hear from you, boy,“ comes the almost friendly greeting and Dean smiles in spite of himself. “But this aint gotta be a social call, so what do you want?"

Dean hadn’t seen Bobby in a few years, a fight Dean still doesn’t know what it was about putting a distance between them, but Dean has always liked the older man.

‘Sometimes, he was a better dad than my own‘, Dean thinks and feels guilty immediately.

“Bobby, we need your help,“ Dean tells the other hunter.

“Who is "we"?“

Dean looks up, watches Sam’s eyes on him and the phone and his mind flashes back to the night before. Just for a second, but then the word ‘we‘ suddenly has another twisted meaning to it.

“A friend,“ Dean answers vaguely and sees the smallest of reactions cross over Sam’s face.

“Okay, and how do you think I can help?“

“It’s about the demon that killed my mom.“ Dean doesn’t have to say more. Long, endless nights of shared booze between Bobby and his father had probably made Bobby an expert on that demon. .“He’s killed again. The same way he killed Mom.“

This time, the reaction on Sam’s face is obvious and open. Pain.

Dean closes his eyes briefly, concentrates on Bobby again.

“I know.“ Bobby’s replay is low on the other end.

“You do?“

“As far as I understand, there are more. People burning on the ceiling. Look, your father has been on it’s trail for a while now. I know he’s getting close. Why don’t you just ask him?“

For a second Dean can’t think. His father had known? His father had worked this case, had found out about more people that died exactly like his mother, without telling him about it? A cold chill runs over Dean’s spine as he looks at Sam.

His father must have known about Jessica.

“I can’t ask him, Bobby,“ Dean says neutrally, keeps the feelings at bay. “He’s dead.“

The other end of the line goes quiet. “How long?“ Bobby finally asks.

“Last … last week,“ Dean answers and he can’t believe that so little time has passed. Two weeks ago, his life had been so different that it feels like someone else’s.

“I’m sorry, Dean.“

“Thanks, Bobby,“ Dean replies and he means it. At least Bobby doesn’t feel the need to tell him what a good hunter his father had been.

Bobby clears his throat on the other end, gets back to business again. “I’m afraid I can’t help you a lot with this. John and I haven’t been best buddies lately and he’s always kept things close to his chest.“

Dean sighs, feels disappointed. He had hoped to get at least a few answers. He would never let Sam see it, but the dreams and the visions – it’s starting to freak him out.

“Thanks anyway, Bobby,“ Dean starts, wants to say his goodbyes when Bobby interrupts him.

"I said I can‘t. But I know someone who probably can."

 

~*~ 7 ~*~

 

"Yeah? What do you want?" is the first thing they hear out of the interphone.

"Uhm, Rufus?" Dean starts, not sure if he has to look up into the camera that is pointing right at him. "I'm Dean Winchester. This is Sam," he points to the man next to him. "We're friends of Bobby Singers."

"Yeah, and?" comes the short reply.

"Uhm,“ Dean exchanges a look with Sam. "And Bobby said you might know how to help us?“

"Yeah, and?“

"And we’re asking you to help us?“

"Look, kid,“ the voice says, "I aint got all day. And you’re wasting my time.“

"Okay, wait!“ Dean goes for the bottle he has under his jacket and shows it into the camera. It's a brand new and seriously expensive for his line of work bottle of Johnny Walker Blue.When Bobby had told him to bring it with him, Dean had thought Bobby had been joking.

 

There's silence for a while and Dean's almost sure they reached a dead end and can turn to leave now, when suddenly the front door opens and the older hunter looks up to them.

"Okay, get the hell in."

Dean smirks at Sam and follows the other hunter into the house. It’s small, full of old stuff, football trophies, guns and books, and Dean remembers vaguely that Bobby’s house doesn't look that much different. He hasn’t been there in years.

Rufus motions for them to sit, pulls his own chair back to the small table that is cramped between a desk and the kitchendoor.

Dean catches Sam’s eyes, nods. Sam looks spooked, on edge, but here Dean can’t do anything for him.

"That’s all I have,“ Rufus says, throwing a small amount of folders onto the table, old and newer ones, and Dean can see that they’re all filled with numerous pages and pictures.

He doesn’t give them time to reach for them though. Instead the older hunter places glasses on the table, pours some of the precious alcohol Dean had given him in them and smiles like this is the best day he had in a long, terrible time.

 

"That’s what I found,“ he tells them later, empty glasses in front of them, and he opens the first folder. The face of a young boy, blonde hair and with tortured eyes, appears.

Sam gasps next to him and Dean doesn’t need to ask to know that he’s who Sam had seen earlier.

"That kid’s name is Max Miller," Rufus tells them. "Killed his mother and father. Went to a mental hospital. A couple of weeks ago he vanished from a closed cell.“

"What’s so special about him?“ Sam asks, and Dean hopes Rufus doesn’t recognize the slight tremble in his voice.

"His father’s death looked like a suicide. His mother died from cuts to her face.“ Rufus makes a pause, looks at Dean. "He did it with his mind.“

"Tekekinesis,“ Dean nods, watches Sam’s face pale.

"There are more,“ Rufus goes on, his voice sounding rough like the whiskey he was drinking. "Andrew Gallagher, psychic; and his twin brother Ansen Weems; Ava Wilson, premonitions, Jake Tally; super strength and so on and so on and so on.“

Rufus looks up, his eyes traveling from Dean to Sam and then back again. "They‘re all either dead or suddenly disappeared.“

"So, what does that all have to do with us?“ Dean asks carefully. "Bobby said you had a lead on the demon.“

Rufus stays silent for a second, eyes Dean like he tries to read something in his face. Then he grabs a folder at the bottom, worn out green and ragged on the edges, and throws it on top of the other.

Pictures are falling everywhere. Photos and drawings, maybe hundreds of them. All showing the same thing.

Yellow eyes.

Dean feels Sam react just like he feels his own heart suddenly beating double time and his own blood racing through his veins.

"They all talk about this,“ Rufus says. "About a man with yellow eyes who appears in their dreams. He talks to them, tells them that they’re special. Chosen.“

The old hunter lets his eyes linger on Sam’s face and Sam’s not able to hide his horror anymore.

"His name is Azazel. I found something about him in an old article. He practically butchered a whole church full of nuns. Seems like a real nice guy, your demon.“

"Do you know what he wants from the kids?“ Sam asks before Dean can.

Rufus shrugs. "It’s not hard to figure out. What could a demon want with an army of special kids?“ He leans back in his chair. "Whatever his big bad plan is, one thing's for sure: It aint gonna be good."

Dean and Sam exchange a look and Dean can see the fear in Sam’s eyes, right underneath, and maybe he thinks he’s hiding it well but Dean can see it all the same.

"So, you're going after them?" Sam asks suddenly, looking up at Rufus and Dean is almost sure that he can see right through him, notices the way the other hunter keeps shooting glances at him as if there's something he's trying to figure out about Sam. "You hunt the kids?"

Dean feels the urge to reach out to Sam, to stop him from saying more. But he doesn't. He keeps his game face on and watches Rufus closely.

"Why would I? This is not my fight. I know things,“ he leans forward, plays with the empty glass in his hands. "I know a lot of things about a lot of people. That's what I'm good at. I don't care about the rest."

 

"So that’s all we have?“

Rufus shakes his head at Dean. "Not quite.“ He gets up and comes back with an old map, spreads it out before them.

"That’s what Bobby found out,“ he explains. "It’s a map of Southern Wyoming. He tracked all the demon activity in the country and there was nothing special.“

He points to a marked place of the map. "Except for this area.“

"Are they gathering there?“ Dean asks but Rufus shakes his head.

"Nope. That place is squicky clean. Not even one demon.“

"Do you know what it means?“

Rufus shrugs at Dean’s question.

"Uhm,“ Sam starts but then he stops and reaches for a pen. Under the curious eyes of the two hunters, Sam connects some dots that seem random to Dean.

But the picture the lines create doesn’t.

"That’s a symbol, right?“ Sam looks up at Dean.

"It’s a devil’s trap.“

"What the hell is a devil’s trap?“ Sam looks from Dean to Rufus.

"It’s a very old symbol, very powerful. It’s keeping demons in, or out,“ Rufus explains. "What’s that? Railway lines?“

Sam nods. "I remember it from school. They’re old rails. I think most are not even used anymore.“

"Solid Iron,“ Dean starts, looks at Rufus. "Creating a massive devil’s trap,“ the older hunter finishes.

"But what is there?" Dean looks closer to the map but all he can see is a large area of ... nothing.

"Just an old cemetery," Rufus answers.

The three men stare down at the map as if it's holding all the answers, but neither says anything else. Rufus doesn't seem to know more and altough Dean knows about all the questions swirling around in Sam's head now, the younger man seems thankfully smart enough not to voice them out loud in front of the old hunter.

Dean stands up, sees Sam doing the same. "Thanks for your help."

Rufus shrugs again. "I owed Bobby one."

Dean frowns. "But you didn't even want to let us in without the bottle."

"Doesn't mean I'm giving away freebies here."

 

"Dean, he's there," Sam whispers as soon as they're walking down the front porch. "The Yellow Eyed Demon, he's at that cemetery and whatever he's doing to the kids, it has something to do with that place. I can feel it"

"Yeah, Sam, me too," Dean answers, opens the door to his car and gets in, Sam joining him

"So what do we do now?"

Dean starts the engine. "Get as far away from Wyoming as possible."

 

~*~ 8 ~*~

 

"Dean we can't ... I can't run away from this," Sam sighs finally. They've been fighting for hours now, getting loud and angry then low and tired and then exploding again.

Dean's exhausted, both of them are, but he has to stand his ground no matter what Sam says.

"So what do you want to do, huh?" Dean asks, like he hasn't been asking the same question twice already. "Walk to that demon, unarmed and defenseless? Or are you just gonna do what he wants you to?"

Sam only glares at him and presses his lips into a thin line.

"Look, Sam," Dean continues, his voice gentle this time, "We don't have the colt anymore. We don't know what's going on at all. I'm not letting you walk in there half-cocked." He waits for Sam to meet his eyes before he goes on. "We're gonna kill that sonovabitch, I promise you that, but as long as we're not strong enough, we're getting away from Wyoming, as far as possible."

Sam doesn't nod per se, but he doesn't shake his head this time, so Dean counts it as a win for now. He sighs, rubs his eyes with his fingers.

"God, I can't believe I had a normal life once," Sam whispers and his words run a cold shudder down Dean's spine.

"You'll have that again, Sam," Dean promises him, catches his eyes while he says it and he doesn't know where he takes his sincerity from. But he means it. Although it's gonna rip his heart out and he'll probably have to fight to his last breath for it; he'll do it. He'll make sure Sam can go back some day.

Sam watches him silently but finally he shakes his head. "I don't know, man," he says, his voice almost to low to be heard over the noise of the engine. "I mean I've always felt torn. Not just since ... Jess. All my life, there was always this ... feeling. Like there's something else waiting for me. Or someone else. I don't know."

Their eyes meet again and Sam gives him a careful smile. "I don't know if I want to go back."

Dean doesn't reply. He bites his tongue to keep the words in, to keep the promises and reassurences to himself. Sam deserves better than this. He's probably just exhausted, tired and scared. But he will want to go back, one day. Dean's sure of it.

 

Sam's stomach makes some noise and when Dean shoots him a look, Sam smiles shyly, ducks his head.

Dean can't remember when they last stopped, ate something. Since Rufus all Dean could think about was getting pavement between them and Wyoming. Maybe they can go at least a few more towns.

"Dude, I can drive for a while," Sam offers and although it sounds tempting, Dean snorts.

"Hell no. Nobody drives my baby but me."

Sam just raises an eyebrow but a small smile is playing around his lips. "Then let us stop for the night, okay? You look tired."

"Nah, not yet." Dean brushes him off, mentally rolls his eyes at Sam motherhenning him.

"Dean you need to sleep eventually," Sam goes on in that caring-gentle tone of his and it hits all the wrong buttons in Dean.

"Sam, it's okay. Stop babying me."

Sam laughs awkwardly, afronted, like he can't believe that Dean's reacting the way he is. "I'm not babying you, okay? I'm sorry I care, but I do. You're trying to save my ass every single day since you got me out of jail, so let me look out for you sometime too, okay?" Sam sounds pissed, looks older now with that angry look on his face, all cramped up in the seat.

But his words stirr something inside Dean he's never been good to deal with since his mother died, and he just snaps.

"Dude, quit it, I mean it. I don't need someone to look after me, alright? I've been doing good on my own for a damn long time now!"

"Jeez, calm down," Sam says, reaches out to touch Dean's arm, maybe unconsciously, but Dean freaks the fuck out.

"And stop the fucking touching all the time!" Dean twists away from Sam, watches his hand freeze in the air.

"Wow," Sam breathes, suddenly deadly silent,"You wanna tell me what's really going on?"

Dean blinks up at Sam, nervous at the other man's drastic mood change.

"I just don't like it to be touched all the time, okay?" Dean finishes lamely. "I'm not some girl you have to pet or something."

"That really all?" Sam asks, obviously not believing him.

"Yes!" Dean rolls his eyes. "Not everyone likes the touchy-feely crap, okay?"

Sam flexes his jaw, Dean can see it from the corner of his eyes. "Tell me the real reason, Dean. Tell me what you got such a huge problem with."

"Because I can't friggin' think with you so close, okay?!" Dean explodes and instantly wants to take it back.

Sam's eyes change, grow darker, heated; the whole mood in the car changes. The air is charged with something, suffocating Dean, and it's so, so wrong and not okay and Dean shouldn't be even thinking about this and Sam's making it so friggin' hard for him. Pun so not intended.

Dean growls, stops the Impala on the side and jumps out of the car. He needs to get some air and space between them, they've been hard-wired and on edge the whole fucking day and now this is turning into a very dangerous terrority and it's best to get some distance between them, just for a while, until the tectonic plates of the planet have shifted back into their right positions.

But Sam's not having it. He's even faster than Dean would have given him credit for, follows Dean down the few steps on the side of the road, inches behind him.

"Dean," Sam's shouting after him and his voice sends a shiver all over Dean's body.

"Stay the fuck away, Sam," Dean shouts right back and keeps on walking. He's dimly aware of how ridiculously he's behaving here, how stupid and girly this is; but whatever it is between them, it's growing and blinding and fucking ... too much for Dean to deal with.

"Is this really what you want?" Sam says, right behind him, right into his ear, and Dean spins around, almost trips over his own feet.

Sam's looming over him, close, and his face is so ... open, so fucking raw and honest and full of need.

"Tell me you don't want this, Dean" Sam says, his voice dropping at least two ovtaves.

"I don't want this," Dean answers, his voice almost stuck in his throat and it's everything. The truth and a lie and Dean doesn't know how to make Sam understand.

But Sam doesn't leave, doesn't give up and just walks back to the car. He leans forward, slowly, giving Dean every time in the world. "Then all you have to do is take a step back," Sam whispers, and closes the distance between them.

Dean doesn't know why he doesn't take that step. He feels Sam's lips on his, soft and tentavely, and all thoughts of running away from this leave his mind like they've never been there in the first place.

Sam's kiss is tender and patient at first. He doesn't touch Dean; they're only connected by the soft press of lips against each other, but still, Dean feels crowded; engulfed by something strong and warm and right and he just ... stays.

Sam nibbles lightly on Dean's lower lip, pushes gently against them, coaxing them open with little licks of his tongue.

Dean won’t remember the moment he started kissing back, but suddenly he is. His hands are flying to Sam’s waist, pulling the taller man closer, and Dean opens his mouth to Sam’s kiss, feels their tongues collide.

The moan Sam makes vibrates against Dean’s chest, tingles through his whole body and it wakes Dean up.

"Jesus,“ Dean gasps, pushes Sam away the same time, stumbles back a few steps.

"Dean…“ Sam starts, hurt so obvious on his face.

"No, Sam, no.“ Dean blinks, tries to catch his breathing, tries to overcome the shock of what he’s done. His body is still screaming for Sam though, still craves Sam’s touch, and Dean just wants that feeling gone so he can start to think again.

But it stays. The power of his own needs, for Sam, makes Dean feel sick and wrong but so so clear for the first time.

Something stirrs inside Dean’s stomach and Dean almost wants to laugh 'fucking butterflies‘, but then it grows into pain, sharp and hot.

Dots start to dance in front of his eyes, heat’s traveling up the back of his neck.

"Dean?“ Sam whispers, takes a hesitant step forward.

"Feel … dizzy,“ Dean stutters, feels his knees go weak.

"Dean!“ is the last thing he hears before the darkness swallows him.

 

~*~ 9 ~*~

 

"Dean."

Dean hears his name even before he's fully awake, feels the voice saying it pulling him out of his sleep.

"You okay?“ a worried Sam asks, sitting by Dean’s bed. It's day outside, the sun creating shadows on Sam's face. But it's more than that. Dean doesn't need to look closer to know that Sam's feeling terrible.

"Dean, are you okay?" Sam asks again and he sounds stressed out and scared.

Dean nods. "I'm okay. Feel like a truck ran me over, but I'm okay."

He sees Sam breathe out, sees relief on the other man's face.

"You wanted to look out for me. Do me a favor, alright? Be careful what you wish for next time, okay?" Dean knows it's not exactly funny and Sam's not laughing, just glaring at him from under his bangs.

"What the hell happened?" Dean asks him and sits up, leans back against the headboard.

Sam is on his feet in an instant, his arms outstretched, ready to jump in if Dean needs help.

Dean just rolls his eyes at him. "Calm down, Sam, I said I feel fine."

"Like you would tell me the truth," Sam mumbles, now showing more anger than worry and Dean counts it as a small victory.

"So?" Dean repeats. "What happened?"

"Poison," Sam mumbles, blushes, and Dean doesn't understand any of it.

"What?"

"I uhm ... I called Bobby." Sam doesn't look Dean in the eyes. "It took a while until he actually trusted me enough to talk to me though," Sam laughs awkwardly and Dean can picture clearly what Sam had to go through. Sam shrugs. "I just didn't know what else to do. You were still breathing normally and you looked okay and I thought the hospital was too dangerous and I wanted to wait to maybe see first and... ."

"What did he say?" Dean stops Sam's helpless stutter.

Sam takes a deep breath. "It's some sort of poison. Made of something he called goofer dust and some other stuff I've never heard. He said Rufus uses it to uncover supernatural beings. Like holy water only ten times more powerful."

Dean's brows furrow. "So you drink that stuff and die means you're human? Sounds a little witchhunting to me."

"If you're human, you get sick immediately. It wears off within the next 24 hours. If you don't ...." Sam trails off and looks at Dean. His whole face looks like that of a lost puppy and if the situation wasn't so damn serious, Dean would have probably laughed at him.

"So Rufus tested me?" Dean asks, sounding a little afronted.

"No." Sam's eyes avoid Dean's look as he stands up, walks back into the shadows of the room to lean against the table. "He tested me. You got it because ... when you ... I ... ki ..."

Sam doesn't finish the sentence and Dean doesn't need him to. Now Dean at least knows why he was blushing like virgin earlier.

"How do you feel?" Dean asks after a moment of silence, his voice stone cold.

"I feel fine, Dean," Sam whispers. "Didn't feel anything when I drank it."

 

Dean feels sick and cold and he doesn't lie to himself thinking it comes from the poison. He can see Sam out of the corner of his eyes while Dean's staring down at his own hands, trying to sort the emotional turmoil inside him. Sam doesn't move, doesn't look up at Dean, waiting.

For Dean to condemn him, for Dean to kill him. Dean doesn't know.

Something cold stabs at his heart when Dean thinks about how Sam is not running away. How he's putting his fate in Dean's hands.

"We gotta leave, Sammy," Dean says, making an attempt to get out of bed.

"What?" comes the breathless reply.

"When Rufus knows that something's ... up with you, he will come for you. And Rufus is far more dangerous than Gordon."

"Dean," Sam says, finally looks up at him.

"Sam, there are a million reasons why the stuff might have not worked with you. But Rufus might not listen to either of them, alright? We have to leave here."

"But, Dean, you heard him. He said he doesn't care about these things anymore."

"Well maybe, I don't wanna stick around to find out if that's true, Sammy."With that he fully stands up and the sick feeling hits his stomach again. He groans.

This time, it's definitely the damn stuff Rufus mixed under his drink.

"Dean?" Sam rushed to him, steadies him before Dean falls face down.

"Ugh," Dean makes before the dots start dancing again.

"Bobby said 24 hours," Sam tells him again, lowering Dean onto the bed. "You have to stay there a little while longer."

"But Rufus," Dean pleads weakly, already feels himself drifting away again.

 

Dean wakes up again a few hours later. The sun is about to go down, the yellow-red light blinding Dean from the window. Sam's nowhere to be seen, but Dean can hear noise out of the bathroom, hears the water running in the sink.

"Sam?" he asks into the relative silence.

The answer comes only second later. "Dean." Sam comes out of the bathroom, his face still dripping wet and his hair sleeked back. He looks like he's been throwing water in his face, he looks ... off.

"How're you feeling?"

"Better," Dean answers, but this time, he doesn't make the same mistake twice and actually listens to his body. "But not well enough," he admits. "Best you stay awake and watch out, okay? You know how to handle a gun? Shit, I should have fucking taught you how to handle a gun."

"Dean, it's okay," Sam hushes him. "Rufus doesn't know where we are."

"Sam, he's a damn good hunter. He can find us fast."

Sam nods. "I'll be careful, I promise."

Dean nods, feels sleep nag at him again. God, whatever Rufus gave him is really fucking strong. He hasn't been knocked out like that since a hunt back when he was 17 and got bitten by a damn harpie.

"Dean, I ..." Sam starts and Dean's focus shifts to the other man again. Sam looks pale, his hands are shaking again and he's biting down on his lips. "There's something ... what they did..."

Sam doesn't make any sense and Dean wants to ask him. Wants to know what it is with his godamn shaking, but his mind gets fuzzier by the second.

"In the bar ... when ... what Meg said ... there's something you need to know, Dean." Sam makes some steps towards him and Dean desperately wants to stay awake, wants to hear what Sam has to say.

But he isn't strong enough. He doesn't know if he hears the sob coming from Sam or if he's dreaming it.

 

The next time Dean wakes up, he's alone. He feels better now, get's up and there's nothing, no pain, no sickness, he's okay again.

But Sam isn't there. Dean doesn't have to check the bathroom, the silence is different when he's alone. He's too familiar with it not to know the difference.

"Goddamnit," Dean swears as he finds the note on the table, scribbled down on some old motel paper.

"Be back as soon as possible. I'm sorry. Sam."

 

~*~ 10 ~*~

 

"Jesus fucking Christ," Dean grits through his teeth as soon as he finds Sam.

He didn’t think he would actually find him, but this is a small town and since Sam planned to be back soon he couldn’t go that far.

He actually finds him in the local bar. One that looks just like every other bar in every other town Dean’s been before. The same grumpy but nice bartender, the same sleezy girls, the same drunk boys.

Sam’s not inside but once Dean is talking to some guys and asks for a tall guy they might have seen, one comes to him eventually. "Tall? Brown hair? Sure he was here. Needed it bad.“ The guy has a filthy laugh and Dean all but wants to punch him in his ugly face. But he doesn’t. Stays calm and listens.

"He’s out back. Took off with some other dude.“ The ugly man makes a disgusted face but Dean doesn’t stay with him, just pushes him to the side and leaves the twilight room of the bar through the backdoor.

Sam’s still there. Not gone anywhere with the guy he’s clinging to, whose neck he's nuzzling.

Dean feels himself blush; standing there, driving through town, half crazy with pictures of Sam getting killed in his head, when all Sam obviously wanted was to find a guy and get laid.

He feels embarrassed and angry for Sam doing that to him, for making him feel like a creepy, jealous ...

Dean shakes his head, doesn't finish that thought, and he's about to turn and leave when something catches his eyes.

He can't see Sam's face from here, but the guy's is pretty visible. He's not as tall as Sam, blocked by Sam's huge frame, but for a second, Dean sees the other man's face.

And he sees the sneer. And the black eyes.

"Sonovabitch!"

Dean just reacts. Doesn't think, doesn't stop, just runs up to the couple and throws a punch to the demon's jaw.

He's lucky.

The demon's caught by surprise, stumbles backwards, away from Sam and Dean only needs this one little moment to go for the small bottle of holy water he keeps in his jacket, unscrews it and shoves it down the demon's throat.

"Dean!" Sam gasps behind him, pulls at Dean's arm and for a second, Dean is convinces that Sam is trying to get him away from the demon.

"Stay back!" Dean shouts and pushes the demon down, who's glaring at Dean with dead black eyes, gurgling, with smoke coming out of his mouth.

"Okay," Dean stands up, his eyes not leaving the thing, making sure he's out at least long enough so they can escape. "Let's leave here, Sam."

"You don't understand," Sam says what sounds like a sob and whine and something like ... desperation. He doesn't move, Dean can see it out of the corner of his eyes.

"Get in the car, Sam," Dean says, his jaw so tight it hurts.

"You don't ... Dean!"

Dean swirls around, angry enough to forget the demon for one second. "Do you want to die?!", he shouts, screams, at Sam and the other man looks at him with wide eyes, frozen in shock.

"Get in the car, Sam!"

This time, Sam follows the order.

 

~*~ 11 ~*~

 

There's an angry silence between them all the way back to the motel and Dean bites his lips and keeps his hands on the wheel to not just throw a punch at Sam just like he deserves. Being this reckless, this ... stupid.

"You don't understand." Sam whispers behind him when they enter their motel room for the night and it’s all Dean can do not to just spin around and beat the living shit out of him.

"No, I don't! I really, really don't, Sammy!“ he shouts instead, only distantly aware that the walls are thin and the neighbors can hear them. "You know what the hell is out there, how many demons are looking for a piece of you and hell, Gordon... ."

But Sam stays silent and let’s Dean scream at him and Dean can’t bite back the words anymore. "What? So, I didn’t let you have me so you just go out and take the next best thing?“

He doesn’t even stop breathing, stop a second to just think about what he’s saying here.

"Are you so desperate for a fuck that you'd go with any guy you can find?!"

 

But then Dean stops. He just ... He stares at Sam, Sam, with wide eyes and suddenly he can see him again. The little kid, frightened for his own life, scared of all the things that keep crashing down on him.

"Dean," Sam whines, sobs and the need on his face pulls something inside Dean's chest.

"Fuck," Dean swears under his breath because it's too much. He doesn't know how to handle this, how to handle Sam who is torn and messed up and everything Dean is, when Dean had desperately tried his whole life to prevent Sam from being exactly that.

And then Dean does something he can't remember ever having done before to anyone else and he pulls Sam into his arms, into a tight hug and whispers soothing words into the other man's ear.

 

Sam falls into the touch immediately, presses up to Dean until Dean can feel Sam against him all the way and he can't move away, can't do anything but savor the feeling for a long, sinful moment.

"I need," Sam whispers, turns his head just so that his nose touches Dean's ear and his lips follow soon after.

Dean groans at the sudden warmth, at the hot tongue attacking his skin and his body shudders involuntary when Sam bites down gently on his lobe, whimpers into his ear.

"Want you, just you, Dean, oh ... oh god."

He sneaks his hand up under Dean's shirt and Dean gasps at the feeling of the warm, huge hand caressing his skin. "Sammy," is the only word that escapes his lips and it sounds breathy and needy and nothing like Dean wants this to stop.

And he doesn't.

As much as he should want to put a halt to this, he can't. He isn't strong enough to say no, isn't strong enough to not want.

"Let me, please let me," Sam mumbles against his skin, feverish and needy, and he doesn't wait for given permission, just licks and bites and strokes everywhere he can reach.

Sam walks them backwards, gently pushes him until Dean's legs touch one of the beds behind him.

It doesn't need more than a last tender shove and Dean lands on his back, can't tell if his outstretched hands want to hold onto Sam to keep himself upright or want to pull Sam with him.

It doesn't matter though, doesn't make a difference, because Sam follows, crawls right after Dean like he's starving for him and Dean can't think.

Sam's hands are fast, shoving up Dean's shirt, and then Sam's lips cover Dean's chest, inch by delicious inch and Dean can't help but arch into Sam's little kisses and licks.

"Thought about this, Dean, thought about it so much. Couldn't help it. Imagined how your skin would feel. Your lips, God, how they would feel on every inch of my body." Sam's needy mumble doesn't stop, washes over Dean like another set of soft, hot touches. But Dean isn't doing anything.

Nothing but trying to catch his breath and not drowning in Sam's need for him, in all the things Sam wants from him and Dean isn't sure how to give, how he can even consider it.

"Holy fucking Christ, Sammy," Dean gasps, when Sam cups the bulge in Dean's pants. But Sam doesn't seem to hear him, keeps on like he wants to explore all of Dean's body all at once. He only stops for a second to lean back and pull his shirt over his head and Dean can't do anything but stare at the wide expanse of golden skin.

A jolt goes through him when Sam lies down on top of him again, skin against skin, and the moan Dean hears comes out of his own throat.

"Can't fucking think around you too," Sam repeats Dean's own words for him, grinding down in soft little jerks and Dean watches Sam arch his head back, eyes closed, mouth open in a moan.

Then Sam attacks Dean's neck again, bites along his jaw; their writhing bodies creating a friction that makes Dean dizzy with want.

Dean doesn’t notice at first, too occupied with Sam, Sam, all around him, but then he feels his pants being pulled down, right along with his boxers and his shirt being pulled over his head, in a bundle, right along with the amulet and Dean notices too late, hopes, prays, that Sam didn't see it.

But suddenly he’s naked, just like Sam is and Dean only realizes it when he feels Sam’s lips brushing his cock, lying hard and starving for attention on his belly.

"Oh, god,“ Dean groans and his body betrays him, his body just wants more while Dean tries so desperately to not want.

"Sam, Sammy, stop." Sam's eyes hit him, raw and so fucking open, and Dean gulps heavily. "Come here," he whispers, can't find his voice but Sam had heard him, crawls up Dean's body until he surrounds him completely and Dean only has to reach out to pull him into a kiss.

It’s not what he wanted to do. He intended to push Sam away, to stop this madness.

But Dean finds himself with Sam stretched out on top of him, his own hands buried in Sam's too-long hair, giving as much as he gets, hungry and desperate and breathless.

He feels a door burst open, something rooted so deep inside him no one else could have been able to reach. But now Sam breaks all the walls down and in a swift moment of clarity, Dean knows he wants this. Wants to let Sam in in all ways possible. He wants to be his, wants to belong.

"Dean," Sam says and when their eyes meet, Sam looks at him with something like awe in his look, a deep, glowing affection, as if he can read everything Dean feels right on his face.

"Sammy,“ Dean says, can’t hold the emotions he’s feeling inside him and there’s a hopeful look on Sam’s face that is worth everything.

Sam crushes their mouths together, dives in deep like he wants, needs to be closer to Dean, make them one person.

Dean answers with a groan and locks his legs around Sam’s waist, drags him impossibly closer.

He’s just as desperate as Sam, just as hungry, and when he feels their bodies slide together, feels their dicks rubbing against each other in that sweet, burning friction, he doesn’t care anymore.

He devours Sam just like Sam's devouring him and, god, it's good, so good, better than anything else. It's right. Like all his life, this is what has been missing.

"God, Dean," Sam moans and doesn't sound coherent anymore. His mumbles have turned into breathy sounds, gasps and groans and whimpers, and together they're making noise.

Sam bites down on Dean's neck, suddenly and hard and Dean grunts with the pleasure. Sam has buried his face there, clawing at Dean with all his strength, and they're rocking together, harder, faster, both on the edge already.

Dean comes first, feels it rip through him from head to toes and he opens his mouth in a silent scream. Sam whimpers again, louder, turning into a grunt and Dean holds him, holds him so tight he isn't sure where he ends and Sam begins.

Sam moans out his pleasure, doesn't stop moving until the last drop of hot, thick cum has mixed with Dean's, sticky and messy and ohsogood between them.

Coming down from it takes longer than Dean can remember ever experiencing before. And Sam doesn't seem to do better, keeps on panting into Dean's neck, keeps on shuddering against him.

So they stay like that. One mingled mess of limbs and skin. They stay like that and for a small moment in time, it's perfect.

 

~*~ 12 ~*~

 

Dean wakes up maybe twenty minutes later, because his back is cold in all the places Sam’s not plastered to him. Only the very spot where Sam’s arm is draped around him is burning.

They have fallen asleep like that, tangled up in each other and Dean can feel Sam's heartbeat against his body.

He can feel the dried cum already, sticky and uncomfortable to his skin, gluing their bodies together and Dean needs all his strength to not jump off the bed.

He tries to untangle himself as careful as possible, slips out of the bed almost without waking Sam up. But he can see him blink out of the corner of his eyes already.

The click of the bathroom door closing makes something break inside Dean’s chest. He let’s out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and rests his head against the door, closing his eyes.

He feels sick to his stomach, feels bile rise in his throat.

What he did. What he let Sam do.

 

With shaky legs, Dean stumbles into the shower, turning the water so scolding hot like it could wash his sin away from his body like it does with the evidence of what had happened.

But it’s not like he can go back and undo it, un-feel it. Like he could forget the texture of Sam’s skin on his tongue, the sound of his breathy moan in his ears.

And a small, evil part of himself reminds him: Like he would want to.

 

Dean’s shower is quick and efficient, not drawing it out longer than necessary, and soon he has the towel tightly around his hips, trying to sneak back into the room.

The smell of sweat and sex attacks his senses as soon as he’s back in, and it’s almost enough to make a certain part of his body interested again.

Sam’s waiting for him.

He stands by the bed, holding his clothes against his body so Dean can’t really see anything, but it doesn’t matter. Sam is naked, their shared cum still on his belly and he’s looking ruffled and gorgeous and tempting.

Dean’s eyes shoot to the floor and he can feel the blush creeping up his cheeks.

"So, you’re freaking out?“ Sam asks, his voice gentle and nervous.

'You have no idea‘, Dean thinks bitterly and there’s a hysteric laugh building up in his throat. This can’t be happening.

Dean can’t see the disappointment in Sam’s eyes when he walks past him into the bathroom. But he can imagine it all the same.

 

He’s lying in his bed when Sam emerges out of the bathroom again, a cloud of hot steam with him. Dean has his clothes back on, or shorts and a shirt at least, and the pendant around his neck. Hidden under the shirt, it seems to mock him by touching his skin where not an hour ago Sam’s mouth has been.

Sam looks uncertain the way he’s still standing in the middle of the room; wearing boxers and a shirt too. He eyes his own bed and then Dean and the moment feels like a deja-vu.

Only this time, Sam makes a different decision.

 

He still doesn’t look too sure when his eyes meet Dean’s, but walks over to the bed Dean’s lying in all the same.

For a second Dean thinks that he should stop Sam, stop this, but it feels stupid in comparison to what they’ve done earlier and Dean doesn’t find it in him to deny Sam this. Or himself.

He scoots over just a little bit, only enough to make room for Sam, who climbs in next to him and wears a look of happieness on his face he tries so bad to hide that makes Dean’s freakout almost worth it.

"Dean,“ Sam whispers and when Dean meets the other man’s eyes, he can see how hard it is for him not to reach out to Dean like he obviously wants to.

"It’s okay.“

Dean feels Sam’s hand on his chest, not moving, just placed there to create a contact between them.

Dean swallows heavily and doesn’t tell Sam how very not okay this was.

"Please, just … let it be okay.“

Sam’s hand starts moving in slow circles, somehow more intimate then the sex before, and Dean can feel Sam's breath brushing his cheeks.

Sam let's out a deep sigh, like he's giving up on waiting for a response from Dean, but he settles against him, not too close but not far enough either. Dean wishes so badly that he could give Sam just the comfort he seeks, that he could just give him what he craves.

 

"You're always hiding it," Sam whispers and lets his fingertips feel over the bump of the pendant that is hidden under Dean's shirt.

"It's private," Dean grumbles.

"From your brother?"

"Yeah, " Dean answers and his voice breaks. He feels Sam looking at him, waiting for more but Dean feels drained and exhausted already. He's given Sam more than he had ever given anybody. More than he should have and Sam's still waiting, still expecting something from him.

But Sam seems to give up a second time that night, groans as he stretches in the bed, shuffles closer to Dean until his arm is draped again over Dean's chest and his nose nuzzled against Dean's neck.

"This is so not happening," Dean mumbles under his breath,"Tell me I'm not cuddling with a 6''4' sasquatch in a friggin' queen-size bed."

Dean's irritated by how good it feels, how much his own body reacts to being held like that and it scares the living shit out of him how much he just wants to close his eyes and bath in the feeling.

But then Sam starts chuckling next to him, little puffs of breaths touching his skin, and it blooms into a full on belly laugh, Sam turning onto his back and laughing out loud, the sound of it bouncing off the walls of their little room.

"Are you done?" Dean asks, but he can't help the grin spreading over his face when Sam's laugh has turned into little giggles and he's wrapping himself around Dean again.

"This is not cuddling, Dean," Sam tells him, amusement rich in his voice. "Actually, it's closer too spooning."

"Oh, shut up," Dean groans and can't help but like the feeling of Sam grinning against his neck.

And he pretends not to notice the butterflies in his stomach, when Sam places a soft kiss on his shoulder and mumbles a "Goodnight, Dean".

 

~*~ 13 ~*~

 

When Dean wakes up the next morning, warm and sated, the space next to him is empty and cold. Sam is gone.

 

It only takes a heartbeat for Dean to figure it out. To touch the cold spot beside him where Sam's shape is still pressed up into the sheets and to realize that he's been gone for some time.

The panic comes in waves. Slowly, and then gone for a second before it crashes down on him again harder than before.

Dean is out of bed in no time, searching every corner of the room for hints. But there isn't anything. Sam's stuff's still there, nothing out of place.

Just. No Sam.

"Damnit," Dean curses, doesn't even hear himself, doesn't hear how messed up he sounds, how broken already.

Something tells him that this is really bad. That Sam didn't just up and leave not meaning to come back.

 

Looking all over the motel and speaking to random people outside is fruitless. No one has seen Sam, has noticed something weird, and Dean's desperation is growing by the seconds.

Guilt mixes itself slowly into the fear.

Of how Dean should have seen the signs better, should have looked closer. There's something more about Sam, something Dean still can't quite see, something he should have made Sam tell, no matter how hard Sam tried to hide it.

Now Sam is gone and Dean's probably never going to know.

Thoughts of last night rush through Dean's head and his hand shoots to the amulet, still safely hidden under his shirt.

Dean's throat closes and he bites his tongue to keep himself together.

 

Three hours later and Dean's a wreck. Sam and whoever got him, Rufus, Gordon; they could be miles away by now. Could have done God knows to him. Sam could be dead by now.

"Ellen, it's me," he says into his cell phone, tries to level his breathing but he can tell Ellen's picking it up anyway.

"Dean, what happened?"

"Sam's gone. I can't find him."

"That kid?" she asks.

"I think Gordon has him," Dean just goes on, doesn't have time for a long conversation. "That sick sonovabitch has tried to kill him before."

"Or maybe Rufus,“ he adds as an afterthought. "Fuck, I don’t know.“

Ellen must have heard Dean's voice trembling at the last words. She doesn't ask more, doesn't waste time. "I see what we can do," she answers quickly and hangs up and Dean's alone with himself again.

 

~*~ 14 ~*~

Sam

 

The burn of his wrists, where the rope chafes over the skin that is already red and about to break, wakes Sam up. He blinks a few times, tries to remember where he is, but he comes up blank when he takes in his surroundings; empty walls far away from him, the floor dirty and cold. Like he's in an old warehouse.

Then Sam looks down on himself, sees how dried blood stains his jeans and he tries to remember where the blood comes from. If it's even his own.

It's the symbol on the floor, white and huge; a circle with weird letters and signs, that makes him gasp. The chair he's tied to is standing in the middle of it.

 

"Oh, Sam, you're awake?"

The sudden voice let's Sam's head snap up, searching the room for the owner. His heart pounds loud in his chest when his eyes fall on Gordon Walker, sitting on a chair just inside the shadows coming from huge metal shelves. One hand is playing lazily with a knife.

"What do you want from me?" Sam spits, tries to free himself from the chair, but the knots are too tight and all he's earning is cold, angry laughter.

"What does it look like, Sam?“ Gordon walks closer and now Sam can see the fresh scar on his face, going from the hairline right down tot he corner of his lips.

Sam has a vague feeling that he’s responsible for it.

"It’s my job to kill things like you,“ Gordon explains, his voice full of disgust. "And I’m really good at it.“

"How did I get here?" Sam asks, tries to buy time, tries to remember last night, how far away he is. From Dean.

Gordon smiles coldly. "He will not get to you in time, Sam. I made sure that we’re miles away from him now,“ he says like he’s reading Sam’s mind.

“How did I get here?“ Sam repeats.

“You don’t remember?“ The hunter leans forward, his stale breath brushing over Sam’s face. “Finding you, Sam, is not very hard. You only have to find a demon and wait.“ He grins and it looks distorted on his face. “And that’s what I did. And to get you here?“ Gordon laughs like even the idea of questioning him is ridiculous. “I’ve done this job long enough to know what I’m doing.“

“You can’t just kill me,“ Sam says and it’s only now that he realizes how far he’s come. How nothing in the world could have prepared the college boy he once was for what is happening now.

"You're gonna die slowly. Because you're the worst kind, Sam. Betraying your own race."

Sam is sure he can see the madness in Gordon’s eyes. This can’t be happening, this can’t be true.

"Your hunger, Sam. It's stronger than you."

Sam shakes his head, feels already sick in his stomach. "No. No."

"I can prove it to you.“ Gordon takes a step back and produces a small flask out of the inside of his jacket. It reminds Sam oft he flask with holy water Dean gave him.

This flask though, Sam’s afraid of.

Gordon unscrews it, waves it in front of Sam’s nose.

"Demon blood. Fresh. It' still warm." He grins, keeps on waving the flask like Sam’s a fucking vampire and Gordon’s expecting him to grow some fangs.

"No. Don't," Sam gasps, because he can smell it, the bitter tang of it and he feels it already, the need for it, buried deep inside and clawing it’s way back to the surface.

“Come on, Sam, open up.“ Gordon grips Sam’s jaw, forces his mouth open and Sam can’t do anything. He’s tied up and weak and defenseless and he can’t stop the drop of deep red blood falling in his mouth.

 

Just one drop but it tastes like heaven. It feeds the craving inside him; he can feel it pulsing through his veins. Just one little drop and he can already feel stronger, better.

“See? You’re a monster. There’s no hiding anymore.“

Gordon smiles down at him contemptuously and Sam tries to hide his own. The hunter has no idea what he just did.

 

"Gordon, step away from him!“ a female voice echoes through the hall and Sam and Gordon jerk their heads around.

Sam notices the guns first, two long rifles pointing right at Gordon, and then he sees the women behind them. A young blonde and older one with darker hair.

Sam hasn’t seen them before but from Dean’s few words about them, he’s sure that they’re Ellen and Jo.

Coming to rescue him.

Sam tries to glance past them, tries to see if Dean’s with them.

But they’re alone and Sam forces himself to feel relieved. To feel happy about Dean being out of the crossfire.

"Harvelle, right?" Gordon asks like this is a meeting of old friends.

"Step away from the boy Gordon!" The older one, Ellen, says again, her voice strong and sure.

"Do you even know what he is?" Gordon asks them, makes a step forward. “I’m doing the right thing here, believe me.“

 

"Oh, I guess we’re late to the party.“ The female voice makes their heads jerk around and Sam’s heart speed up in his chest.

Meg.

She’s standing in the shadows, a young man beside her.

"Oh, excuse me,“ she turns to Ellen and Sam can see the horror in the woman’s eyes, like unconsciously, she already knows who’s standing in front of her. “We met a friend of yours outside. I'm afraid he can't make it."

With the last words her eyes turn black, just as the man’s beside her. Sam can see it even from where he’s tied to the chair and he feels the fear charging the room in an instant.

Demons.

Sam thinks about Dean and about how hard he’s tried to keep him alive, to save him. Sam can’t believe it’s gonna end this way.

"Well, well," Meg smiles, her dead eyes moving over everyone in the room. "This is gonna get interesting."

 

~*~ 15 ~*~

 

Dean answers the phone after the first ring. He's so riled up, he reaches for it before he even realizes what the sound is he's hearing.

"Come to the roadhouse," Ellen says with a dead voice. "We got Sam."

Dean turns the car one-eighty, doesn't care about the wild honking and screaming around him.

 

~*~ 16 ~*~

 

Dean arrives at the roadhouse an hour after dawn. He had kept driving, not once taken his foot off the gas and he doesn't even feel it in his bones, the hours sitting in his car, although distantly he's aware that his muscles ache with not moving for so damn long.

"Ellen! Jo! You there?!"

Dean doesn't bother keeping his voice low. The engine of his baby is not even calmed down yet and Dean’s already at the front door, pushing it open, the 'closed'-sign rattling against the wood.

He just hopes he’s not too late. Hopes Sam is with them and still breathing. Dean remembers praying as a kid, back when his mommy was still alive, but he has never done it since then.

His heart is beating so fast in his chest now, he’s considering it for a second.

But then the door gives way and lets Dean enter the warm, dry heat of the roadhouse, everything darker in here and Dean has to blink a few times until he can see the scene in front of him.

It’s Sam he sees first, always Sam.

Only then he sees the chair he’s tied to, smells the bitter tang of blood and it takes a second until he realizes that the shadow on Sam’s face isn’t a real shadow.

It’s blood. Smeared across his mouth, dried.

"Sam,“ Dean gasps and storms forward but he only gets three steps in before the click of a rifle being cocked stops him dead on his tracks.

"Ellen?“

She’s pointing the weapon right at him, her eyes hard und unyielding, and Jo stands right beside her, a knife in her right hand.

They look terrible.

Blood is dripping out of a head wound Ellen doesn't even seem to notice. Jo's hair is wild and glued with more blood, a nasty cut sitting on her neck. Their clothes are torn and dirty, their skin bruised; dark spots already forming in some places Dean can see.

"Christo.“ Ellen throws the word at him and Dean stumbles a step back, unconsciously, and looks at her in terror.

"What the hell? Ellen what’s going on here?“

"So you're not a demon," Ellen states matter-of-factly and Dean’s stunned.

"Of course I'm not. What the hell happened to you? And what happened to Sam?" He makes a step towards Sam, tries to get to him, but Ellen and Jo both raise their weapons again, signalling him to stay where he is.

He stops, but his eyes travel to Sam anyway and he can see that the other man is still breathing at least, but he looks beat up and awful, barely holding himself upright on the chair he's tied to.

Dean's mood changes instantly when he sees the symbol drawn around Sam, the circle the chair is standing in. His face hardens and his blood runs cold.

"What? So you kept him alive as bait?“ Dean suddenly understands. "To get me here? To make sure I’m not possessed?“

Ellen doesn’t nod, but the look in her eyes confirms it anyway.

"Let me get to Sam," he demands, meets Ellen's eyes.

"I'm sorry, Dean. But Sam is not Sam anymore." Ellen does sound sorry, like she has a vague idea what Sam could mean to him, but the truth is she hasn't and it’s not enough for her to lower the rifle.

"Christo." Dean says it this time and he watches Sam's face, watches it not change at all. He turns back to the women, his lips forming a tight line. "So what's okay for me doesn't count for him?"

They stare at each other; a weird, tensed game of who blinks first but then Jo takes a shuddering breath and Dean's eyes fly to her.

"Did you know?" Jo asks, her voice strained and the hand that is holding the knife trembling.

"Know what?" he asks coldly, guarded.

"What he is? What he does?" Her tone is pleading, begging for Dean to say no, to not have an idea what she's talking about.

But Dean has. And the thought blooms into deep fear inside him. "What the hell happened?"

“You were right.“ Ellen lower’s the gun a little, just so that she can look right at Dean. But she doesn’t put it away and Dean can feel a distance suddenly grow between them that doesn’t have anything to do with the room.

‘This is gonna end bad‘, Dean thinks and braces himself.

“Gordon had him. Tied up to a chair just like that and we thought Gordon was the one we should be afraid of,“ Ellen spits out, like it’s Dean‘s fault, like Dean had known all along what would happen.

“There were demons waiting for us, Dean. And they came for Sam.“

"Meg," Dean breathes out, and he has to remind himself that Sam is still here, sitting in this very room not far from him, alive.

Ellen clenches her jaw, swallows thickly, before she goes on. "Ash is dead. That demon-bitch got him."

For a second, Dean's mind is completely blank.

Then it hits him.

Ash is dead.

Something sick twists in his guts, makes Dean flinch. Another one dead. Another one gone.

Dean doesn't say 'I'm sorry' although he is, deeply, but it doesn't feel like he's allowed to say it now.

"But that's not all," Ellen says and now Dean can see how hard it is for her, sees it in the way her jaw is trembling.

“They didn’t come to kill him, Dean. They protected him. From Gordon. From us.“ Ellen exchanges a look with her daughter.

“So Gordon is dead?“ Dean asks, feeling nothing but satisfaction.

Jo nods. “Sam killed him. Got up from his chair and broke his neck. Like it was nothing.“ Jo shudders at the memory of it.

 

"Dean?“ the low, gurgling sound comes from the corner and Dean spins around, looks at Sam, whose eyes are trying to catch his.

"You okay Sammy?“ Dean asks but he doesn’t get an answer, just another "Dean“ that tells him that Sam doesn’t really understand him. "Hang in there, buddy, okay?“

Dean’s eyes travel back to Ellen and Jo. "Is this really necessary?“ he asks them. He wants to get to Sam, want’s to get him off that damned chair and bring him somewhere where he can sleep and rest and get well again.

“Do you know that he’s drinking demon blood?“ Jo asks him and the words hit Dean like punch to his guts.

He doesn’t. He didn’t.

But there’s a small voice inside his head who laughs at him, tells him that he did know, that he was just closing his eyes from it. The shaking of Sam’s hands, the craving in his eyes, what he tried to tell Dean about what had happened in that bar – it all makes a terrible, devastating sense now.

“He killed Gordon and then he killed that demon. I don’t know how he did it and I don’t know why but that demon just stood there and … and let him.“

“Let him what?“ Dean asks, the blood feeling like ice running through his veins.

“Let him snap his head. Let Sam open his veins and drink his blood.“

He sees the fear in Jo's eyes, plain as day, and never since he's known her did she look at him like that. Dean swallows, sways, but then Sam makes that gurgling sound again, like he’s in pain, and really, there's no competition, never has been.

Whatever Sam is or does or is supossed to be, Dean will deal with it later. Will do whatever he needs to. But first he has to get Sam out of here.

Dean's a better hunter then them, better trained, with better reflexes, and with way more to lose. Ellen and Jo don't see it coming when Dean spurs forward, kicks the rifle out of Ellen's hands and ducks in time enough to pull the knife from Jo's fingers.

They cry out, both of them and then they start fighing back, kicking and pushing, but Dean's too strong for them, too desperate.

Dean kicks the rifle out of reach, draws his own gun, heavier in his hand than he can remember, and the sound of cocking it echoes loudly through the room.

It's deafening and Ellen and Jo freeze.

"You're not gonna shoot us," Ellen states disbelievingly.

Dean clenches his jaw, keeps pointing the gun right at her. "I'm leaving with Sam." He says it slowly, pointedly, and hopes the women won't hear the fear in his words, the doubts.

But they don't and Dean can see the moment it all sinks in, that he has chosen another side than theirs. Ellen takes a step, gets right in front of her daughter, and raises her hands.

"Alright," she says, her voice still strong, her chin held upright. "Do what you have to do, Dean."

Dean eyes her for a few seconds, then he makes his decision. "Untie Sam. And then tie yourself together."

Deep down he knows he's kicking the only thing that comes close to family with his feet, literally, but he has taken that step already, had never had a real choice here.

 

"Who is he to you?" Jo asks under her breath when Dean ties her feet together, and he can hear the tears in her voice although she fights to keep them away. Jo's always been a fighter like that.

Dean's gonna miss her.

But he doesn't answer, bites his tongue and checks the knots. They have to be strong enough to give Sam and him a head start but loose enough not to hurt them too much. He did enough of that tonight.

"You know that Ash found out who the dead man in his apartment was?" she asks, and maybe she tries to make it sound like a challenge but it comes out like a plead. "He tried to tell us before he died. He came after us to warn us. We found everything in his car."

She blinks the tears away again, clenches her jaw and there's a small part in Dean that admires the strength in her.

"It was a hunter, Dean," she tells him. "He was a good man. He saved mom's life once." She looks at him like she's waiting for any reaction but Dean's past it. There's nothing that she could tell him to make him change his mind.

"He found out what Sam was and Sam killed him."

Dean doesn't blink. Where Jo was hoping for fury or disgust or anger; there was nothing. Just a dull ache and the knowledge that he wasn't going to give up on Sam. Never.

 

"Dean?“ Ellen asks to get Dean’s attention and Dean turns his eyes to her.

"If he gets near my Jo ever again, I’m not going to hesitate to shoot, are we clear?“ She doesn't blink and Dean believes her every word.

"Yes, ma’am.“

"Then I hope our paths will never cross again,“ she adds quietly and Dean knows how she means it, knows that she wishes not to have to follow on her promise.

"I’ll call someone as soon as we’re far enough away,“ Dean tells the women and it’s the last thing he can do for them. As soon as he walks out this door with Sam, they’re on their own.

He throws them a last glance and then he turns around to go to Sam, never to look back.

 

"Come on, Sammy," he says quietly, just for Sam to hear, as he grips the other man and pulls him in, almost like pulling up a dead weight against him.

"Dean," Sam whines, his eyes fluttering and he looks so damn innocent, so exhausted, like he's just a kid in a big bad dream.

"I didn’t … I didn’t want all that. I pomise I didn't drink it. I wanted to," Sam sobs, "but I didn't. Spit it right back out. I promise. I can controll it, see?“ Sam can’t even stand upright on his own, clutches Dean’s shoulder so tight it hurts and he can’t see what Dean sees.

Doesn’t know that the tables are shaking, doesn’t hear the glasses clinging in their cupboards.

"Shh, Sammy, I got ya," Dean tells him and it feels like the first time, like the thousandth time.


	4. Feds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I think my whole life," Sam whispers, "I've been waiting for you."  
> The witty remark of how Sam couldn't be more of a girl gets stuck in Dean's throat when he catches the look on Sam's face.  
> The sincerity he can see there, the ... contentment touches Dean deep in his core.  
> Because the haunted expression in Sam's eyes, the way they kept looking for something they couldn't find, is finally gone.

~*~ 1 ~*~

 

"Dean," a whisper comes from across the room and Dean isn't ready. He can't turn around just yet, shift his eyes from the window and face Sam, face the decision Dean's made.

"Dean," it comes again and Sam sounds so broken and desperate that his voice alone is pulling Dean around.

Sam looks terrible. He's standing by the bed, shoulders dropped and with that crushed look on his face that hits Dean low in his guts. Sam's hands are shaking again, and his skin is starting to look pale and thin. The blood looks dark dried around his mouth. It scares Dean to hell.

"Shit, Sammy, just sit down already."

Dean's exhausted. He feels like whatever he does he's always one step behind and Sam's only getting worse, the cops, the demons and the hunters only getting closer. He feels like he's going to lose Sam, no matter how hard he fights to protect him.

"Dean, please."

Sam doesn't move like he waits for Dean to do something, like everything he is depends on what Dean allows him to be.

"Sit down, Sam," Dean repeats, but he still doesn't look Sam in the eyes, can't take his broken look. Instead he walks up to him and forces him to sit down, gently but surely pushing him onto the bed.

Sam goes willingly and he feels even weaker under Dean's hands than Dean had thought.

"Please talk to me," Sam whispers and Dean can hear the tears underneath.

"Sam." He cups Sam's face with his hands and that's when their eyes meet and Dean knows, has known all along, that there's never gonna be another answer. "It's okay," he tells Sam, not losing the eye contact. "It's okay, Sammy."

"You're lying," Sam rasps and he sounds so sure, so sure, that Dean wants to shake him and make him see. Make him see that as long as he's around, everything is going to be okay.

Sam sobs without tears and closes his eyes, presses his forehead against Dean's, holding onto him like holding on to a lifeline. "You're lying. Nothing can be okay anymore. And you're giving up everything for me. Everything. Your whole life, the people you love. Why are you ..." Sam clings to him and all Dean can do is clench his teeth and not lose it right there. "Why are you giving up everything for me, Dean? Why?"

"Sammy, come on. Calm down. You gotta rest, okay?" It's a short fight and then Dean get's Sam to lie down fully on the bed, still clothed, still covered in blood that is and isn't his own, but that doesn't matter so much right now.

"There's something wrong with me." Sam doesn't look at Dean anymore. Instead his eyes are looking up to the ceiling, focusing on nothing. "I know it. I can feel it, deep inside me. And it isn't the blood. It was there before. It was there, the whole time. Dean, I'm ... I'm some kind of a monster, aren't I? That's why my parents didn't want me. That's why they gave me away."

Dean doesn't answer. Can't answer. He feels like his own two legs are too weak to hold him upright, he stumbles backwards until he feels the sideboard behind him, leans against it.

"Look at my hands, Dean." Sam raises his hands in the air." They're shaking because I need it. I need the blood. And I knew. In that bar. I knew there was something wrong with the drink he gave me."

Dean can picture it. Puts together all the pieces he has in his head. From what Meg had said and what Sam had been trying to tell him once. It must have been so easy. Just take a good-looking guy flirting with Sam, who was messed up and desperate; mourning his girlfriend's death. Get him a drink. Give him a taste of the blood. Just enough to start the addiction.

Dean feels anger grow inside him and for a second he wishes Meg was alive. Just so he could kill her again.

"But I didn't care," Sam goes on. "I wanted to feel good. I wanted to forget. I wanted to feel better so bad."

He finally moves his head, searching for Dean with his tired, desperate eyes. It's all Dean can do not to scream.

"Dean," Sam says again and Dean is not sure if he ever wants to hear his name said like that. It's downright killing him.

"What if they're right? Ellen and Jo and all the other hunters? Am I dangerous?" There's this question so big in Sam's eyes, so important, but Dean doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know the answer.

Sam stares at him for a long time, waiting.

"You should have killed me then. You should have ..." Sam says finally, turning his head away from Dean.

"You have to find Sam. You have to save him. And if you can't ... you gonna have to kill him."

The words echo in Dean's head like a terrible song. He doesn't say anything anymore that night.

 

~*~ 2 ~*~

 

Sam is asleep. Finally. And Dean feels something huge and heavy fall off his shoulders, something that had been crushing his lungs. And his heart.

There is a comforting silence now in the room, the feeling of peace lingering in the air like the fear and desperation had been minutes ago. That's gone now and Dean can almost believe that everything is going to be alright.

Sam is asleep, safe and relaxed. The frown on his face is gone and leaves that beautiful look of peace that Dean hasn't seen nearly enough.

Dean leans forward on the old chair he's sitting on and he stills for a second, hopes that Sam doesn't wake up from the creak of the rusty wood. But Sam doesn't even flinch and Dean can see his face better now, illuminated just by the light he left on by the drawer and the moon sitting high in the sky, light and full.

Dean has cleaned him up. Has taken a washcloth and cleaned Sam’s face off the blood. He has taken his clothes off and tent to Sam’s wounds.

Sam's breathing is even now, almost not to hear but Dean closes his eyes and listens to the sound. To the sound of Sammy breathing, of air floating through his lungs, the sign of him being alive.

He remembers Sam's breathing when he sleeps, the pattern of it, the comfort it gives to hear that. Dean remembers it from the time so many years ago when Sam had fallen off the tree in the front yard of his foster home and had badly injured himself.

Dean had known by accident, had seen Sam‘s mom rush to the hospital when he had only been driving by for his check-up.

Dean remembers the cold air outside the hospital, how his breath had formed a cloud in the air. He had only turned sixteen that year, had barely been able to drive a car legally. But then Sam had fallen off the tree and Dean had spent a whole week in the small town, just one step behind the mother and the father, behind the doctors talking about the little boy.

He remembers hiding in dark corners in the hospital, watching the lines on the forehead of Sam’s mother disappear slowly. He can still see Sam lying in that huge white bed, looking so small and innocent.

And more clearly than anything else, he remembers how he had sneaked into the house when Sam had been back home, how he had gone up the stairs, his heart beating so loud he was sure he had been heard.

How he had sat night after night just outside Sam’s room, ear pressed tightly to the door, listening to him breathe.

He had been there for two weeks, feeding his dad some story about a poltergeist, but now that he thinks back to it; maybe his father had known all along where Dean had been.

 

Sam shifts in his sleep and Dean can’t take his eyes off him.

Sam doesn’t look so small anymore, not at all with his broad shoulders and long legs, but the innocence is still there, and the deep, strong urge to protect him is still anchored inside Dean.

The love he had felt for that little boy so far out of reach has only gotten stronger and bigger since then.

And in the end, it doesn't need more than that.

Although everything inside Dean screams at him that he shouldn’t take that step, that it’s wrong what he does; he’s done fighting it. He's done pretending that this isn't what he wants. He's done trying to convince himself that it doesn't feel right.

He takes the last step, literally, and crawls carefully under the covers of Sam’s bed, immediately surrounded by Sam’s heat and Sam’s smell.

He shifts closer, until he has Sam in his embrace, pressed tightly together, Sam's head placed in the crook of Dean's neck and Dean presses a kiss to his hair. Sam makes a content noise and turns his head, nuzzles in deeper.

Dean lets the sound of Sam’s breath lull him to sleep.

 

~*~ 3 ~*~

 

Dean is not fast enough.

He hears the steps outside and reaches for the knife under the pillow on instinct, but he's in Sam's bed, wrapped around him, and there is no knife. He realizes too late, can’t leave the warm body next to him fast enough before the door crashes open and men in dark clothes and with heavy guns storm the room.

Sam stirs in his arms.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Henricksen lazily enters the room. "Is this a bad time?"

 

~*~ 4 ~*~

 

Dean can't tell how late it is but he's damn sure he's been sitting here for at least two hours, handcuffed to the cold plastic table, surrounded by narrow blank walls and a mirror that was see-through from the other side.

Dean would laugh at how cliché everything here was if he wasn't so damned pissed and worried about Sam.

They had separated them even before they had pushed them into the cars to their way to the precinct. He hadn't seen Sam since and the distinct feeling of fear isn't so distant anymore.

Sam is far away from okay, had been even before they'd fallen asleep and Dean feels fear crawling up his spine when he thinks about Sam being in another room like this one, cuffed to a table like he is.

The blank door opens and makes a hollow sound that echoes through the room when it falls shut again. A tall man swaggers into the room, lazily and sure of himself, holding a blue folder in his hands.

"Dean Winchester,“ Henricksen drawls, a cold smile on his lips. "Long time no see. You don't call, you don't write, where's the love?"

Dean can see right through the facade, can see that this guy isn't going to play games.

"Where's Sam?" Dean asks, trying to keep his voice under control. He’s far from playing games.

"Aww, you worried about your boyfriend? I hope I didn't interrupt something private last night." The cop smirks, pulls the other chair back to sit down, the folder landing on the table right in front of Dean.

"Where is he? Tell me he's okay or I swear to God...."

"Or what?" Henricksen laughs. "You're threatening me? I would watch my mouth if I were you." He turns his eyes away from Dean, his mannerism dripping with cockiness, and Dean hates him with a passion.

"Dean Winchester. You know what I got here?"

Henricksen reaches for the folder and taps, almost caresses it with his fingertips. "This is my birthday, Christmas and Thanksgiving wrapped up into a nice little package right from the lab."

His eyes stay on Dean's face; he doesn't even blink, like he can't wait for Dean's reaction. Then he leans forward, lowers his voice to a whisper. "Seems like you and Sammy share a lot more than the love for killing innocent people."

Dean feels his blood leave his head and suddenly he's sick to his stomach.

"I always knew you were a sick bastard. But fucking your own brother? That's a new low, even for you."

Henricksen smiles at the sight Dean sure is giving him; face pale and his breath nervous.

"What? You got nothing to say to that?" Henricksen teases, tilting his head to the side like he's watching something interesting.

"So you let little Sammy blow you with a guy next to you bleeding to death? Or do you fuck your baby brother right on the coffin of the poor dead man you just dug up? Huh? That more your thing?"

And that's it.

"Shut the fuck up, you son of a bitch!" Dean snaps, loses it right there. He knows that he can't hide the emotions splayed across his face any longer. It's too late for that.

Henricksen stares at him like he's trying to figure something out. When his eyes widen in surprise, Dean can see that he got it.

"Holy shit." Henricksen whistles and leans back in his chair, his face all smug satisfaction. "Sam doesn't know that you're brothers, does he?"

 

~*~ 5 ~*~

 

There's a sudden noise outside. People running along the hall, shouting, tension builds in a second.

"What the ... ." Henricksen turns around, his face in a frown and he opens the door to peak his head out.

"Shit, run!" they both hear someone scream from outside.

There's something wrong. Something bad.

"Hey!" Henricksen screams at the next person running past him and the woman stops hesitantly, looks at her superior.

"What the hell is going on here?" He demands to know and Dean's heart rate speeds up. Like he unconsciously knows something that they don't.

"There's something .. the other prisoner... ." She can't say any more than that when a scream comes from somewhere not that far away and she shoots Henrickson another look before she takes off.

"Damnit, what the hell," Henricksen mumbles and leaves the room, leaving the door open and Dean can see more people hurry past the room in one direction.

And then, three or four guys with raised firearms going into the other.

"Hey!" Dean shouts and fear starts crawling up his neck. "Hey! What's going on? Hey!"

He hears shouting, hears dark voices bark orders at each other.

 

It's the sudden gunshot that makes something in Dean's heart snap.

"Hey!" he screams, shoves against the metal table and his handcuffs make a screeching sound but he's going nowhere with this. "Sammy!" He feels the name being ripped from his throat, imagines the cops with the guns, imagines Sam, helpless.

"Sammy!" he screams again, pushes again, but the damned table doesn't move and his wrists hurt with the brutal force Dean's using to try to escape. To get to him. To save him.

"You hurt him, I'll fucking kill you!" Dean screams himself hoarse but he can't leave the cell, no one's paying attention. The noise is still loud somewhere outside, the shouting doesn't stop.

Another shot echoes through the building.

"Sam!" Dean kicks desperately against the table. "Sammy! Goddamn it!"

One second the pain of tugging at the handcuffs is jolting through Dean's body, the next there's a soft click and they snap off, fall down to the ground with a low jingle.

Dean doesn't question it. Doesn't even give it more than a heartbeat of thought and then he's running out off the room, heading straight to where the shouts are coming from.

 

What he sees should stop him. What he sees should make him go for his own weapon and point it at Sam. Should put him in line with the men armed with heavy guns and clothed like they are going to war.

But it's Sam and that's all it takes. All it ever took. Dean doesn't even hesitate breaking through the line of cops, just shifts them to the side to get through and he's reckless and suicidal doing this but that thought is only barely in the back of his mind.

It's Sam and that's all that matters.

"Sammy!" he shouts running up to him, the men behind him barking at him, shooting orders like they're ready to do with their weapons.

Sam is standing against the wall, pressed against it with his whole body shaking, and only a second before Dean reaches him he notices that Sam's feet don't even touch the ground.

"Sammy," he whispers and his hands find Sam, find Sam's shirt and he fists it, looking up at the other man, shocked and desperate and raw with fear.

Sam's face is a mask of pain. Contorted in a silent scream, blood pulsing so close to the skin that Dean can see it and the eyes rolling back and forth, focusing on nothing.

"Come on, Sammy, please." Dean still whispers like they're alone in this moment, only him and Sam existing, and not in a room full of chaos, with a table turned over and broken in a half lying on the ground, an officer next to it who might be unconscious or dead and with the dozen of armed police officers, screaming at them. Always screaming and Dean can't even see them but he knows that they're vibrating with the need to end this, to stop them, to shoot.

"Please, Sam," Dean pleads and his hand wanders to the other man's face, tries to gently move his head so their eyes would meet, but Sam is still pinned to the wall and shaking violently. "They're gonna shoot us," he tells him. "If you don't stop, they're gonna shoot, Sammy, they're gonna kill both of us."

Sam makes low gurgling sounds, like he's trying to talk from deep under water and his eyelids flutter heavily. His pulse is racing under Dean's thumb and Dean doesn't know what to do, other than to hold on and beg.

"Sammy, come on. Please, man, please." He buries his head in the crook of the other man's neck, presses himself close, like he can ease Sam's body with his own. "Please Sammy," he whispers. "They're gonna kill you. They're gonna shoot right through me and kill you if you don't stop."

 

And just like that it stops. The sudden silence is so loud; Dean can't make it out from the noise before. But slowly, still clinging on Sam, he turns around, ready to face the men pointing their guns at them. Ready to take the bullets.

It's their shocked faces he notices first. Their eyes widened in horror as they stare at their guns, no longer safe in their hands.

But floating, their barrels pointing at each and everyone of them, right before their faces.

"Sammy, don't," Dean says, his voiced croaked. He can feel Sam behind him. Pressed against his body, the whole length, can feel him take heavy breaths, like everyone takes an effort.

"Let them go," Dean tells Sam and he should be more shocked, more ... something, but everything he can feel is the desperate need to get Sam out of here. Alive. Everything else is just a bonus.

"Dean," he hears from behind him and he jumps around, ready to grab Sam in time, steady him against the wall. "Dean," Sam whimpers again and his eyes are still unfocused, still swivel around the room like they're looking for something to focus on.

"I got ya, Sammy, I got ya." Dean doesn't even think about what he's doing anymore, acts on instinct, and he gently pushes Sam's bangs out of his face, rubs a thumb over his eyebrow.

Sam's eyes finally focus on him, stay clear and steady, and Dean tries a weak smile, is too relieved to do anything else. "Let's get you out of here, okay?"

He helps Sam up, pulls him against him so he can walk for the two of them and turns them around.

The police officers haven't moved.

But now they're staring at them, Sam and Dean, and the guns are lying forgotten on the floor. Dean can't remember hearing them fall, hearing the plop when they reached the ground, but it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter that Sam did this, that Sam can do these things; nothing matters but that solid weight of him against his side, warm and breathing.

"What is he?" Henricksen asks, standing in between those men, panting with fear and his eyes are so wide in his skull it almost looks comical to Dean.

"He's the Antichrist," Dean deadpans. "Now move the fuck out of the way."

He doesn't look back once and they're left alone on their way out of the building.

 

~*~ 6 ~*~

 

Dean drives for almost three hours before he slows down just enough to take a good look at Sam lying in the backseat. It's another five hours before he doesn't check the rearview mirror with a thundering heartbeat.

They had let them walk out of the building; they had let them leave and let them get back to the motel to grab their stuff and leave in the Impala. But Dean isn't taking any chances that they wouldn’t wake up from their shock and follow them with an army.

Sam's quiet in the back and with a cold feeling in his heart, Dean keeps turning around to check up on him. To check if he hasn't lost him already.

 

He's pale and the veins are still visible under his skin just like they had been when Sam had pointed the guns at the cops. But Sam's silent now, his eyes are open, meeting Dean's in the rearview mirror every time Dean checks up on him.

But he doesn't say anything and his hands are still trembling.

So it's not over. Whatever it has been it only has quieted down, but it hasn't stopped.

 

Dean stops at a small gas station, get’s them water and some stuff to eat. They don’t stop there for long, but Dean parks the Impala at the side of an empty road, half hidden by the trees and there he forces Sam to at least take a couple of sips of water and to eat one granola bar.

“We’re gonna stay here tonight, Sammy, so you can rest, okay?” Dean says, his voice gentle.

Sam’s eyes only focus on Dean for a few seconds before they drift off again.

“Sammy, come on, it's gonna be okay, alright?” Dean says, more to himself than out loud and he doesn't believe it, not really, but he has to keep on fighting for Sam.

“Thank you for trying, Dean,” Sam whispers, pulls his lips into a weak smile and it hurts Dean to see him like that, not being able to help.

“I’ve been running too long from this,” Sam says with his eyes closed. “Now the hunger is all I can think of. I need it, Dean. I don’t know what will happen if I don’t get it.”

Dean feels a cold chill run down his spine. It’s exactly what he’s afraid of too.

 

“You know, when I was a kid,” Sam starts, smiling at the memory and his eyes open and focus on Dean. They’re sitting close in the backseat, shut out from the rest of the world.

Dean wishes so badly it could be like that. Just the two of them and no hunters, no cops, no demons chasing after them.

“I believed in Santa Claus longer than any other kid I’ve known,” Sam goes on. “I mean, I knew that my parents were buying the presents and all that … but every Christmas, I got an extra present. My mom was always surprised and my dad thought it was my sister doing that.”

“And she wasn’t?” Dean asks.

Although he knows the answer.

Sam shakes his head weakly. “She swore it wasn’t her. And I believe her.” Sam leans his head against the window, closes his eyes again. “Every Christmas I put cookies and milk on the table for Santa, just like I had seen in the movies. But when I was, I don’t know six? Seven? I found this pendant at Missouri’s and she told me to keep it. And to give it to someone special.”

Sam’s eyes flutter open and Dean can’t take his eyes from the other man.

“I put it on the table with the milk and the cookies on Christmas. And the next day, it was gone.”

Dean remembers that Christmas. The best he ever had. He’d always liked the cookies and the milk, the one little Christmas present Dean had for himself. And then one year, Sam had put that necklace on the table, had attached a note to it too.

Dean blinks the memories away but he feels the weight of the pendant resting on his chest, warm and familiar.

“And when I was older, I fell of a tree in our backyard,” Sam says and Dean finds himself enjoying Sam’s stories. It feels like this way, Dean has always been an important thing in Sam’s life.

“I broke my leg and had to stay at home for a long time. And I kept seeing … this boy. He was at the hospital and then later I could swear I’ve seen him at home too.”

“Dean,” Sam says and the eyes meeting Dean’s are clear. “What if I have someone to watch out for me? Like … a guardian angel or something? If demons are real, then maybe angels are too?”

Dean doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or cry. He wants to tell Sam that he’s right, that there are angels watching over him. But the truth is Dean hasn’t seen anything that makes him really believe that.

And the guardian angel Sam thinks he has is nothing but a weak, twisted human.

 

“Okay, you big girl, come here,” Dean says eventually, pulls Sam against him until they’re tugged closely together, sharing almost comfortably the backseat of the Impala.

It’s weird how good it feels. How the warmth of Sam’s skin is already removing the tension inside Dean’s body.

"I think my whole life," Sam whispers into the small space between them, "I've been waiting for you."

The witty remark of how Sam couldn't be more of a girl gets stuck in Dean's throat when he catches the look on Sam's face. The sincerity he can see there, the ... contentment, touches Dean deep in his core.

Because the haunted expression in Sam's eyes, the way they kept looking for something they couldn't find, is finally gone.

 

"I can see him, you know," Sam says. "Your brother."

He gives him a small smile. "I can see him in your eyes. When you're all silent. When you look at other kids. When you talk about him. I can see how much you love him only by looking at your eyes."

It seems like Sam wants to say more, but he doesn't.

 

Sam’s eyes become distant. He’s not saying anything and suddenly, he seems so far away that although Dean’s holding him in his arms, he doesn’t feel like they’re even in the same universe.

“He’s close,” he whispers and Dean doesn’t even know if Sam’s talking to him. “He’s waiting. And I have to be there. He wants me to be there.”

Sam turns his head up to Dean. “You have to bring me to him. Otherwise it’s never gonna stop. It’s never gonna be over and more people will die.”

“I know, Sammy,” Dean says quietly and doesn’t move at all. “You can sleep now, okay?”

 

He knows where they are. He knows damn well where he was heading during the last few hours.

 

~*~ 7 ~*~

 

It's cold when Dean wakes up and Sam isn't next to him.

"Damnit, Sammy. I should tie you to me, so you're not gonna disappear on me every night," he mumbles, cranky and sore and his back hurts with the way he had slept all night; cramped up in the backseat.

And then he thinks that he maybe already did, tied him and Sam together so nothing would tear them apart. Not without destroying both of them. Dean shudders at the thought. And at the mixture of fear and contentment that goes along with it.

He scrambles out of the car, spotting Sam at the tree line a few feet away, standing upright with his back turned to Dean.

A cold shiver runs down Dean's spine but he doesn't say anything when he makes the steps towards Sam, stands beside him.

"He's there," Sam says, sounding far away, hollow, and Dean hates that he knows exactly who Sam is talking about. "He's waiting for me."

Dean doesn't answer. His tongue feels thick and slow in his mouth, his jaw too tired to make the effort to say something.

"He's so close," Sam whispers and he sounds frightened the same way he sounds like he can't wait to see him.

Dean risks a sideways glance to Sam, takes in the pale color of the other man's skin. Sam's calmer now, in a scary way, as if what's human in him is finally resting and the hunger, the thirst, leads him now.

Dean's eyes flutter as he realizes what he could do. That he could just draw his gun and put a bullet to the other man's head and the whole thing would be over. The hunt would be over. Whatever Sam is or is supposed to be would be gone, would end, and he could finally lay himself to rest. But as much as Dean knows that this would be the right thing to do, the right thing for the rest of the world, he knows full well that he's not gonna do it. That he'd rather die himself and go to hell before he let anyone, anything, get close to Sam.

Dean smirks coldly at the thought. 'Over my dead body', sounds like something he understands now.

"We should go," Sam says next to him. "He's waiting."

Dean bites his tongue and keeps in what he wants to say, the curse against that thing that's waiting for them and how he can burn in hell for eternity for all Dean cares, but he turns around to the car, ready to drive the rest of the few miles.

 

That's when he sees the lights of cop cars on the horizon. There's nothing but woods around them, but the street is narrow and straight, he can see miles and miles ahead.

"Sam," he says, alarmed, but doesn't wait for Sam to react, just grabs him by his arm and pulls.

Sam's seems clearer when his eyes snap to Dean, a frown on his face.

"Let's hurry. We can still outdrive them." For everything that had happened, Sam is surprisingly fast when he runs to the car, the door already open when he notices that Dean isn't coming.

"Dean!" he shouts, his eyes traveling to the cars that are coming nearer.

"We ditch the car, Sam."

Dean doesn't look at him; instead he pulls out his gun and checks the bullets. There's enough left and he has money in his pockets and one fake id and that's probably all he'll need.

Dean looks up and meets Sam's eyes. They both know that Dean's hopes to need any of that aren't very high.

"But maybe they aren't even here for us, " Sam tries, shocked, and looking at the Impala.

"What are our chances, Sam?" Dean asks and he hears himself sounding tired and exhausted. Beat. "Do you really think we would suddenly be lucky like that?"

Sam swallows visibly "But it's ... your car."

Dean just gives him a tired smile. "I said we ditch the car, Sam. Now come on."

He hesitates another few seconds, but eventually they both get into motion and are swallowed by the trees before the police cars reach them.

 

~*~ 8 ~*~

Sam

 

The clearing opens before them suddenly and the sun is so high now that the change from the dark between the trees and the light now hurts in their eyes. Sam stays close to Dean's side, draws comfort in feeling him beside him.

He can’t imagine doing this without Dean. Can’t imagine being even alive without him. There’s a part of him who just wants to reach out for Dean’s hand, hold it tight, but he doesn’t. Dean’s with him and that’s enough.

 

Sam sees the rails a second before he sees a man and a young woman stand beside them.

“Dean,” he only says and he can feel Dean’s body tense up next to him when he catches sight of them too.

“Meg is alive?” Dean asks and Sam realizes that they had never talked about that day. That Dean had never asked him about what had happened in that warehouse with Gordon and Ellen and Jo.

“She left. After Gordon was dead and the other demon … She just left. Said that I was ready now.”

Sam doesn’t know what it means. Not really. But at this point, he thinks it doesn’t really matter anyway. They’re here now.

However hard they had tried to avoid this, in the end, they didn’t have a choice.

Dean glances up to him. “But you didn’t drink the blood, right? You said you spit it back out.”

Sam nods. “I did, Dean, I promise.” He can’t help but feel a little proud of that, although it’s stupid and he knows that he might not be able to say no next time.

 

“Finally,” the yellow eyed demon smiles at them as soon as they’re close enough.

“Hello Sam, Dean, nice to see you again,” Meg greets them, smiling like they were all just college buddies meeting here by chance.

"Where are the other kids?" Sam asks, doesn’t waste any time.

"Other kids?” Yellow-Eyes raises an eyebrow.

“Oh, Sam, Sam, Sam, Sam." He looks at him fondly and Sam feels a shiver running through his body.

"There are no other kids anymore."

He pauses, waits for the words to sink in but Sam doesn’t understand.

"You know, Sam, I had this all planned out. Prepared a little game, even called in all the players. Turns out I didn't need it. It was always you. It only could have been you."

“What about the army you were trying to create?” Dean asks roughly, speaking Sam’s mind.

“An army?” The yellow eyed demon exchanges an amused glance with Meg.

“I never needed an army, Dean. All I always wanted was one kid.” He holds his index finger in the air. “One soldier. That’s it.”

“What do you want from me?” Sam feels the words break out of him. Everything is spiraling down to that.

Jess. His visions. The blood.

“Sam. All I need from you is one small favor.”

Sam huffs. “What?”

“You see the rails here?” The demon points at them. “Unfortunately, we can’t cross them.”

“What is in there?” Dean asks, forces the demons to look up.

The yellow eyed demon seems to think for a second. Then he answers. “A door. And I want it open.”

“A door to what?” Sam and Dean ask in unison.

The demon smiles. “Hell.”

“You want to open a door to hell?” Dean sounds like he wants to laugh, like he doesn’t believe his ears but a twisting feeling in his guts tells Sam that the demon doesn’t lie.

“And this,” Yellow Eyes says, suddenly holding an old gun in his hand, “this pretty thing here is the key.”

Sam hears Dean gasp and his eyes travel to the other man.

“Oh, right. I think you know this one, Dean, don’t you?”

“Dean?” Sam asks. “Is that the Colt?”

“Yes, Sam!” the demon exclaims loudly. “I’m proud of ya.” He winks at him and it only makes Sam angrier, only riles him up more.

“That’s the Colt. The one. I just got it from a good, fair trade.” He grins viciously.

Sam can feel Dean’s anger like he can taste it and he can only hope that Dean will keep it together. Sam can’t be the only strong one here.

“See, Sam? It’s a simple task. You up for it?”

Sam nods, makes a step forward. “Okay, give it. I’ll open it.”

The demon offers the Colt easily to him and it feels cold and heavy in his hand.

Sam doesn’t hesitate to point it right at the demon.

The yellow eyed man doesn’t look surprised and Meg only grins.

“What an unforeseen turn of events,” he mocks him.

“I’m gonna shoot you,” Sam threatens and he can already taste the adrenaline rushing through his veins.

“You could always miss.” The demon smiles, makes a gesture with his hand and Sam hears Dean ‘oof’, watches him being pushed back and fall hard on his side. “You could always hit something else.”

Sam’s hope falls, he hesitates and then finally lowers the gun.

“You’re going Sam? We’re waiting for you.”

Sam looks at Dean, their eyes meeting over the distance.

“Don’t. Sammy, don’t,” he hears Dean plead.

But there’s nothing else Sam can do, there’s no other way.

Sam takes a deep breath and turns away, crosses the rails.

His feet feel heavier with every step, his heart sinking. He can’t do this. He can’t open the door.

He can’t not do it either. Can’t risk Dean’s life no matter what.

 

But there’s something else he can do.

 

Sam doesn’t hesitate this time, spins around mid-step and starts walking towards the yellow eyed demon, the gun raised.

The demon only shoots him an annoyed glance, swipes the gun out of Sam’s hand just when he’s crossed the rails again.

It doesn’t matter.

Sam feels the gun brushing his fingers before it’s gone and he changes direction, Meg only a step away from him.

“Sam!” Dean screams but it sounds far away over the rush of the adrenaline in his ears.

Meg is fast but Sam is just that tiny bit faster, catches her wrist and rips it open with his teeth. It’s disgusting and impossible for a second.

Just before the heavenly blood is streaming into his mouth and down his throat. Sam feels her fight, feels her push and pull against him, scratch his face with her nails, but with every swallow he becomes stronger.

Stronger than her.

The blood pulses through his veins, turns all the weak muscles to stone, turns his eyes sharp and alert. Turns his mind stronger than ever before.

“Sammy,” Dean gasps next to him and he knows what an image he offers right now, knows the blood is dripping off his lips and falling onto his shirt.

But he can’t think about Dean now; for once, has to focus on something else.

Meg goes weak in his tight grip and Sam doesn’t need much more to be done with her.

Her lifeless body falls down to his feet and Sam doesn’t blink when the mouth opens and a thick black smoke escapes the young body, vanishes in the sky.

He will mourn the human that just died in his arms, Sam knows he will.

But right now, there is no time.

“That was foolish, Sam,” the yellow eyed demon tells him and doesn’t look so nice and friendly anymore.

“You did this to me,” Sam tells him, his voice feeling stronger in his throat. “You wanted me strong. Now deal with it.”

“I never allowed you to kill my children’s vessels! Sam,” the demon comes closer and he’s angry now, his yellow eyes glowing. “You don’t get it, right? You’re mine, Sam. My soldier! My successor! You’re walking down the wrong path right now and there’s no going back. Ever.”

He steps back again, a smile playing around his lips. “And don’t think there isn't anything I couldn't take from you.”

The demon raises his arm, the one closest to Dean, but Sam sees it coming even before the demon can hurt Dean at all.

He pushes against the power of the demon, focuses his mind on the raised hand and somehow … it works.

The demon barks out a laugh and Sam can feel blood falling from his nose over his lips. His head is spinning, threatens to explode, but Sam keeps on pushing, like a mental barrier he’s created around Dean.

Sam can already feel himself weaken. His bones shiver in his body, his skin feels sweat-damp. He’s not going to last much longer, can’t keep the force coming out of his mind long enough under control.

“Give up, Sammy,” the demon sing-songs and he doesn’t even blink; stands there like he’s not even trying very hard.

Sam feels his knees give in, feels a stabbing pain when they hit the rough ground beneath them.

He keeps on fighting, keeps on pushing, but his sight is already swimming in front of him, his heart beating so fast like it’s gonna burst in his chest.

“You’re not strong enough, Sammy,” the demon smiles, almost tender, “You can’t beat me.”

“No,” another voice comes from the side and Sam can see that it’s Dean, can see him standing there.

With the colt in his hand. “But this can.”

 

The shot echoes over the area, bounces off the trees around them.

The yellow eyed demon stands there for a few moments longer, but Sam can already feel the power fighting him gone. Completely.

The body of the innocent man hits the floor with a dull sound.

The yellow eyed demon is gone.

 

Sam can see Dean staring at the body; can see his chest heaving and the hand with the gun is still pointing at where the man was standing.

Sam smiles when he realizes what had just happened. He only had to buy Dean some time, to distract the demon long enough for Dean to get the Colt back. And it worked.

He didn't have to be stronger than the demon. He only had to be strong enough.

It’s over. That’s the only thing that Sam can think about when he feels his head getting heavy, his skin start to prickle. Dean’s safe.

It’s also the last thought Sam has before he loses consciousness.

 

~*~ 9 ~*~

 

"You're gonna be fine, Sammy, you hear me? You gonna be fine." With the last power he has, Dean drags Sam the few steps up to the front door of the familiar house. He hasn't been here that often, but enough to know that it's Rumsfeld he can hear barking next to the house, tied to one of the old cars that stand around all over the yard.

The angels protest and the wood rattles when Dean pushes the door open, but Sam is not even holding himself upright and Dean needs to get him inside.

Miles and hours lie behind them. Long walks and longer bus rides. Dean can't even remember the last time he had used a bus. They must have looked scary, two tall men, bruised and exhausted, blood drying on their faces and in their hair. Pictures of them must not have been shown around yet because none of the few people they had passed had looked alarmed, had put the police back on their trail.

Sam groans and his eyes are closed, his mouth slack, but he keeps on holding on to Dean and that's all Dean has right now and it has to be enough. "Please, Sammy, come on."

Dean is pleading and maybe crying but he doesn't care, doesn't care about anything at all, but to take Sam to the couch he can see through the windowed doors in the other room. "We're almost there," Dean whispers into Sam's skin as he drags him further.

His own body screams in pain, and Dean walks with clenched teeth until he reaches the French doors. He leans Sam against the wall next to them, while he fumbles with the handle, and when his eyes fall to the floor, he can see that they've left a trail of dirt and blood behind them. One of them must have torn open a wound the last few minutes. Dean can't tell which of them.

He forces his eyes away from the sight and slides the doors open, just in time so he can reach for Sam again, stopping his fall, and then he moves him the last few steps.

Sam winces with every one of them and his eyes are still closed and Dean is shaking with fear, knowing that he has no idea how bad Sam is really hurt. That he can lose him no matter what.

"Please," Dean whispers again, and this time, he's not talking to Sammy.

Dean gasps at the pain that shoots through his spine as he heaves Sam onto the old, worn out couch. Sam is too big for it, too tall, but it's not so important right now and Dean makes sure Sam is lying as comfortable as possible.

"Hey, we did it, man," Dean tells the lifeless body underneath him. "We're safe, Sammy, you hear me? We're safe."

 

"What the hell are you doing here?" a loud voice booms through the room and Dean jerks around, his hand already holding a gun and pointing it at the man in front of him.

He can feel Sam behind him and that’s all he can think about. Protect Sam. Save Sam.

His heart is beating so fast in his chest, it feels like it's gonna pop out any second now. The man whose voice Dean has heard comes closer now and the first thing Dean sees is the barrel of a rifle, then the face behind it.

"Bobby," Dean whispers and the old hunter lowers his weapon immediately.

Dean doesn't.

"Dean? Is that you?"

"Don't come any closer," Dean orders and hears his own voice shake. Just like he sees his hand shake.

"Boy, are you hurt?"

Dean can hear the concern in Bobby's voice, but the other man doesn't know all of it yet and Dean doesn't lower his gun. Not with Sammy right behind him.

"Stay where you are."

And Bobby does. He stops in his tracks and his face is a picture of confusion and worry.

"Don't touch him. Don't you ... don't you dare come closer," Dean keeps on, feels his voice break in his throat.

"Son ..."

"DON'T!" Dean shouts and the hand holding the gun is shaking so violently now, tears streaming down his face, but Dean's noticing none of it.

Sheer panic creeps up his spine, streams through his blood, as he feels his body give up, sees the black spots before his eyes.

"Don't you hurt him, Bobby," Dean sobs, his voice completely foreign to him. "Don't you dare hurt him. I will kill you. You even touch him, I will shoot you."

He thinks about Gordon, about Ellen and Jo, about how they'd betrayed him. About how they wanted to take the one thing from him he loved. He'd be a fool to think Bobby would be any different.

Bobby stares at him and Dean doesn't believe for a second the old man doesn't know who it is that lays behind Dean, who Dean is trying to protect.

"Who is he that you risk your life for him, Dean?" Bobby whispers, his tone begging to understand. "What does he mean to you that you're fighting like a damn lion to save his life?"

And Dean does want to tell him. He wants to scream the truth at him, at everyone. He wants to tell people that no one is able to take what is rightfully his, just his, and that he will protect it under all means.

But he can't. He literally can't anymore when the dancing dots turn into darkness and a white noise fills his ears.

Dean doesn't even hear the sound of the gun hitting the floor when he falls down.

 

~*~ 10 ~*~

 

He wakes up crying, wakes with the burn in his chest and the tears trickling down his cheeks. He remembers faintly that he had been dreaming of tears, of blood and pain. He thinks that maybe he had been crying in his dreams too.

All his strength, the bitter earned control he had fought for his whole life; it means nothing now that his body is sore and wrecked. There's a weight on his heart, his lungs, that presses the last bits of life out of him.

He's done. Just ... done.

 

He doesn't notice that he isn't alone at first. But then he hears the unmistakable sound of someone breathing, sitting next to him, patient.

"You're gonna be okay, son?" Bobby asks, his voice gruff and his chair squeaks as he leans slightly forward.

"Is he dead?" Dean asks, and every single word shoots a sharp pain through his chest. "Did you kill him?"

A part of Dean wishes the answer is yes. So he can just take the last breath and follow. Let go of the pain and the fears. So he can just stop fighting. Dean is so close to breaking, he doesn't think it would need more than just one word.

"No, Dean. He's gonna be okay."

And it hurts all the same, like a punch to his guts, and Dean isn’t sure he can take it anymore. He feels his tears drip over his cheek down his neck and pool on the pillow, wet and cold against his face.

He sobs and he can’t stop it and it hurts, like seizure troubling through his stomach. Dean brings his hands up, covers his face with them and prays that the pain would just stop. The fear, the hope that they could be okay.

"You hear me? He's gonna be okay," Bobby repeats and his voice is worried now, more than it was before.

Dean nods his head a few times.

"He's even better off than you are," Bobby adds with a huff, but Dean can hear the sympathy swing under his words.

He takes his hands away, balls them to fists at his sides and his teeth are clenched like it’s helping with the pain.

His body is screaming with every flicker of emotion, too strung out to distinguish between good and bad.

"Where is he?" Dean forces the question out of his throat.

"In the basement. Locked him into my own demonic panic room."

Dean gasps at Bobby’s words, moves his head to face the old man. Whatever it is Bobby sees on Dean’s face, it makes his eyes widen and his skin pale.

"He's safe there, Dean,“ Bobby reassures him. "I ain't gonna hurt him. But I'm not gonna take my chances with him either."

"I improved it. Inside there, nothing can trace Sam. No demon, no creature, nothing. He's safe there, okay?" Bobby adds quieter, more gentle.

"Okay," Dean breathes, every thought inside his head wearing him down.

But he acts on sheer instinct when he slowly moves on the bed, gets first one foot to the ground, then the other.

"Easy, son," Bobby warns and gets up from his chair, just in time to grab Dean and steady him on his wobbly legs.

"Sam," Dean only says, like it's the only thing he knows, the only thing that matters.

And Bobby seems to understand. He just grips Dean tighter and then leads him out the room, down the hall. They're slow, Dean's heavy breathing filling the air and he's dizzy with the effort it takes to make his body work. But he forces his feet just one more step. Again and again.

They make it down the stairs, Dean clinging to the handle at one side and to Bobby at the other. He rests against the cold stone when they reach the heavy, iron door, watches through hooded, weak eyes how Bobby unlocks the door, pulls it open with a grunt.

And then he sees Sam and that's all he needs.

Sam's curled up on a bed standing in the middle of the room, the ceiling fan breaking the light from above in a steady rhythm and leaving moving shadows on Sam's face. The bed on one of the walls is empty, too small for Sam, and there is a table and a chair and bookshelves full of glasses and piles of old, worn down books, even Dean would find fascinating at any other time.

But his eyes are on Sam, Sam's chest, the slow rise and fall of it and that more than anything calms Dean's beating heart.

He staggers forward, walks into the room and hears Bobby close the door slowly from outside, not following in.

"I'm gonna check up on you later," he hears him say and then he listens to Bobby lock the door again, carefully, lock by lock. Like there’s something dangerous in here.

And maybe there is, but Dean pushes that thought far away, keeps his eyes on the sleeping body in front of him.

It doesn't take more than a step and Dean is lowering himself carefully on the bed. Next to Sam. He places his arm protectively over the sleeping body, nuzzles his face into Sam's neck, breathes him in and feels a deep, blanketing tiredness fall over him.

 

He sleeps for two days.

 

~*~ 11 ~*~

 

It takes time until Dean risks leaving the room, leaving Sam on his own, even if it's just for a couple of minutes. But the fear of losing him, again and for good, has buried itself inside Dean and it sits there, burning and pulsing right underneath his skin.

But Sam is sleeping and he looks good, good considering what they've been through, and Dean is starving, so he shuts the heavy door quietly behind himself and goes up the stairs to find some food.

"Dean," Bobby says with surprise. The old man is sitting on his kitchen table, carefully sharpening knives when Dean gets in, and the sound of it reminds Dean of his dad, with a white-hot stab to his chest.

"Hey Bobby," Dean greets him and tries a small smile, something unfamiliar after the last couple of days.

"How's Sam?" Bobby fixes his eyes on the knives again and the air between them is filled with an awkward wariness.

"He's ... okay. Getting better."

"From what I'm hearing, he has an addiction problem?" Bobby's voice is scruffy and low, another thing that reminds Dean a little of Dad and kicks in his instincts.

"Yes, Sir."

Bobby looks up with a frown, then his gaze softens. "Don't you yes-sir me, kid. I'm not your old man. Don't want to be." He clears his throat and now his voice sounds softer too. "I'll see if I can find a way to get him off that blood, okay? And to get back that damn car of yours."

Dean feels a lump in his throat. "Thank you. Bobby, I mean it. Thank you."

Bobby seizes him up for a long time and then he shifts his eyes back to the table. "Don't mention it."

"Just," he goes on, like something just came to his mind. "Just lay low, okay? There are still a lot of things out there that prefer you and Sam dead. Rufus is not gonna be your problem, but there are other hunters Dean. Friends of the guy Sam killed. And they ain't gonna listen to reason."

Dean swallows heavily, nods. He knows this is not over.

"There's something else." Dean clears his throat, doesn't know how to start saying this. "Missouri, she's ... ." He stops again, knowing that Bobby and Missouri didn't really know each other that well, but it's still tough to talk about another one they've lost.

But he can't finish whatever he was trying to say, because there's a noise from the door and a middle aged, big woman makes her way through it, struggling with a brown paper bag full of groceries.

"... a woman smart enough to know when to hide," she tells him as if she's telling him about the weather and not just resurfaced from the dead.

"You're alive." Dean states, stupidly, but the relief he's feeling over seeing that woman alive who never liked him very much surprises him with its intensity.

"Dean Winchester. If you think a bunch of demons are able to come into my house and kill me without me noticing, then you're not the sharpest tool in the shed." She throws him an annoyed glance. "And I like you just fine, Dean."

"I swear I did not know what I was getting myself into when I allowed this woman to stay." Bobby tells them from the side, looking like he was challenging Missouri for being the grumpiest person in the room.

"Bobby Singer," she immediately scowls him. "I can tell you're in a desperate need of a woman's touch in this house and I'm not gonna sit around doing nothing all day. Dean, help me get the groceries into the house, would you please?"

She doesn't even wait for Dean to react, just pushes the door open and seems sure about Dean following her.

"Yes ma'am." Dean stumbles after her, follows her across the yard to her small car.

"Oh by the Almighty, just ask me, Dean! I can hear it screaming in your head!"

Dean is taken aback by Missouri's sudden outburst, but only then he realizes that she's right. The question is swirling inside his head. For twenty years now.

"You think I made a mistake? By giving Sam away?" He hates how uncertain his own voice sounds.

"I wish I had an answer for you, boy," she answers and this time when she looks at Dean, he can see the sympathy in her eyes. "We'll never know what would have been if he grew up with you. There's no point in beating yourself up about it."

Her forehead wrinkles like she isn't happy with what she sees on Dean's face, the doubts, the guilt.

"Sam was a normal young boy for a very long time. He knew what it was like to be a child. Maybe we should be grateful for that."

Dean meets her eyes and nods, finally. Then he coughs, embarrassed and shifts his eyes away. "I guess I never thanked you, huh? For helping me and Sam back then?" He knows that he hasn't but he hopes that it's enough, that his words tell her everything she needs to know. More so than what she can read inside his head.

She stops, hesitates and makes Dean stop too, in the middle of Bobby's yard, sunshine blinding both their eyes a little.

"You're welcome," she says finally, as if she isn't sure if she even wants him to thank her. "I'm glad I did it. Because you would have given Sam away one day. You were ... so determined on saving him, on giving him a real family, a place where he was safe, even if it was killing you and your father. I could hear it inside your head for months before you knocked on my door." She takes a deep breath, her ever-knowing eyes never leaving Dean's face and Dean feels uncomfortable under her stare.

"If I wouldn't have helped you, you would have found a way. It was the only thing I could do to make sure that I could have an eye on you both."

Dean nods again, understands what she is saying, that it wasn't easy on her too, that she had suffered with them.

He remembers when he first met her. Him and Sammy had been waiting in the car, both eating from one sundae, while their dad had been talking to someone in a store just five feet away. He doesn't remember the day or the hunt his dad was on. But he remembers holding the sundae for Sam and thinking that he should have his own sundae. Like every normal kid. That Sam shouldn't have to sit in the backseat of a car waiting for a father who looked for the next monster to kill. Not when the monster could kill Sammy too.

A shadow had fallen on Sammy's face, his mouth smeared with ice-cream, and Dean had turned around, ready to scream for help as loud as he could, like Dad had taught him. But the woman who had stood at the car had smiled down at him, not coming too near and the window had been down so Dean had been able to smell the weird perfume the lady was wearing, something fruity, something maybe his momma would have worn.

"You tell me where I can find your Dad?" she had asked Dean, nice and sweet, and Dean had trusted her right away, thought about his Dad in the shop, but he was a good son so he had shaken his head no.

"Well, well. Your Daddy raised you to be a good son, didn't he?" She had smiled once again, had looked at Sammy behind him, and Dean had made himself bigger, had shoved himself in front of Sammy as much as he could. "You take care of your little brother, okay?" She had nodded and then stepped away.

Dean would have maybe forgotten all about her, but not a week later they had seen her again. Invited to her house, eating the best pancakes since his mom had gone to heaven.

Dean remembers that scene now more clearly than he ever had. Understanding that she had seen it all in his head, his desperation, his worry.

But then Dean's mind is back in the present in a heartbeat, back to the memory of Sam, Sam like he is now, Sam flushed and sweaty, his head thrown back and his mouth open in a gasp. Dean can't do anything about it, can't stop the images floating through his mind, his mouth on Sam's, his hands on his thigh, his cock, everything she must see now too.

"Oh, stop it!" she scowls him and continues her way towards the car that is still waiting to be unloaded. "Do a woman a favor and think about rainbows and kittens when you're near me, okay? I don't wish to know anything about what you and Sam do in your private time. Do I make myself clear?" She turns around and the way she looks at Dean, it scares him more than his father ever could.

"Yes, ma'am."

She nods, her lips in a thin line. "Now get the bag there for me."

 

~*~ 12 ~*~

 

Dean wakes up when the cold starts creeping into his skin. He isn't used to it anymore, can't sleep well when Sam is not plastered to him like a furnace. Not once in the last weeks did he wake up alone, so he knows something is wrong when he shifts in the bed and Sam's not there.

Dean blinks, sits up and looks around, his eyes needing the time to get used to the light the ceiling window is pouring into the room.

He sees Sam standing on the wall, the fan creating moving shadows crossing the other man’s face. Sam’s eyes are red with unshed tears; Dean can see it even from where he’s sitting.

And then, Dean can’t tell if he sees it or feels it first: The familiar weight from his necklace around his neck gone, dangling from Sam’s fist. Dean can see the other man’s hand clutching it tight enough his knuckles have gone white.

"I'm your brother?" Sam asks, his voice so broken and swinging with emotions that Dean can’t read anything from it.

Dean stays silent.

His whole body feels numb, like it’s wrapped up in a blanket of thick cotton. The only thing he feels is a sharp, stabbing pain.

This is it. He has ruined the best thing in his life. Sam will be gone in a heartbeat, so far away that Dean will never be able to reach him again.

Dean’s sure that he won’t live through it a second time.

 

“Dean,” Sam says again, begging for an answer.

Dean doesn’t feel like he can work his throat, like he can move. But he does. Nods his head slowly and it feels like firing a gun to his head.

Sam’s sob cuts through the silence in the room, bounces off the blank walls. Dean can’t breathe.

There is no way Dean can apologize for what he’s done. No way to even start to say that he’s sorry.

When he’s not.

Not for loving Sam the way he does. Not for sharing what they’ve shared.

 

“I don’t know what to say,” Sam whispers, looking forlorn and trapped at the same time.

Dean still doesn’t move, not when Sam rubs his eyes with trembling hands, not when the other man slides down on the wall, sits down right there on the floor like his knees can’t hold him upright anymore.

“Who …,” Sam starts and then clears his throat before he goes on. “Who gave me away? Was that … your … was that dad?”

Dean shakes his head slightly. “No. Don’t … don’t blame this on him. He didn’t have a choice.”

Their eyes meet over the distance.

“How can he not have a choice about giving away his own son?” Sam asks incredulously.

“When his oldest points a gun to his own head threatening to kill himself if he wouldn’t let you go.”

 

Dean’s words catapult him right back. It’s a memory that never faded over the years, that is still clear like Dean has just left the room not five minutes ago.

“Dean?” John had whispered. “Where is Sammy?”

Dean remembers his thundering heartbeat, loud enough that he was afraid it would explode in his chest.

"He's at a better place now;" he had said, had watched his father's face lose all the color and only later he had realized that his father must have thought that Sam was dead.

"I gave him away," the seven-year-old Dean had sobbed, his small hands clinging to the gun. "I made sure he has a better family."

John had kneeled down on the floor and Dean remembers the horror on his father's face.

"What did you do?" John had whispered.

"I gave him away. I gave him away."

"Dean," John had started, his voice giving no room for discussion. "Tell me where he is. Tell me where Sam is."

Dean remembers shaking his head. Remembers shaking it until it hurt and until John was screaming at him.

"Where's your brother, Dean? Tell me where he is!"

"No!" he had screamed back and then he had moved his hand, had taken the gun away from pointing at his father.

Had put it to his own head.

Dean can still feel the metal to his temple, like an imprint. He can still hear his father's gasp, the shout. He still remembers the tears on his father's face.

"Dean, come on, please," his father had said. "Please, son, put the gun down."

"You have to promise, Dad." Dean had sobbed, had cried. "You have to promise not to go find him. Sammy'll be okay. He'll be okay, but you can't bring him back, please, Dad. You have to promise."

"Dean. Oh god, Dean."

He remembers his father slowly coming towards him, on his knees, reaching out for him.

"Promise me," Dean had asked again, his voice hoarse with pain.

"I promise. God, Dean I promise, but please put the gun down."

Dean remembers the clatter of the gun when it had slithered across the floor.

He remembers his father's strong arms, holding him for hours.

He remembers both of them crying until their shirts were wet.

 

“But why?” Sam asks, fresh tears glistening in his eyes.

“I told you why. That wasn’t a life for a little kid. You could have died every single day. Every time Dad was hunting something. Every time he pissed of some ghost or monster or demon. I couldn't have protected you forever, Sammy. And you didn't deserve a life like that."

He takes a deep breath, tries to make Sam understand. "What you deserved was a mother that sang you to sleep. That cut off the crust of you pb&j. A father that took you to baseball games. You deserved a family, Sam."

"And not you?" Sam asks, his voice small.

Dean shakes head. "For all the things I did wrong this is not what I’m gonna apologize for.”

Sam nods like he understands what Dean tries to say.

“You could have been a part of my life the whole time,” Sam says quietly, like he’s talking to himself.

“I’ve been that,” Dean whispers and Sam looks up at him, studies him until there’s comprehension in his eyes.

“So… my Santa?” Sam sniffs, tries to breathe and Dean nods. “The guy with the wrong number? My pen pal when I was a kid?”

Sam pauses between the sentences, waits for Dean to deny anything. Dean doesn’t.

“The guy with the wrong number? The … the little boy at the fare? My guardian angel?” Sam’s voice shakes with the last words. “That was all you?”

Dean nods slowly.

Sam’s gaze falters, like he’s trying to take it all in at once. Dean can see him trembling under the weight of the truth.

 

“How could you not have told me this? All this time. How could you never have said anything?” Sam blinks. “How could you let us do this?”

Dean’s mind is blank. There’s nothing he can answer to that.

 

He finally finds the strength to get up, finds his legs holding him upright enough for him to leave.

"Just give me a few minutes," he says, his own voice sounding hollow to him, empty. "I'll just get my stuff and then I'll be gone. I'll be out of your hair. I'll leave you some cash and Bobby can help you with everything else you need, okay?"

He risks a glance to Sam's face, just to make sure he had heard him.

What he doesn't expect is a punch to his face.

Dean groans; the punch spins him around, almost makes him lose balance and he immediately starts to feel a throbbing pain building in his jaw.

"You're not leaving," Sam says, wraps Dean up in his arms and presses them together. "You're not leaving. Don't you dare leave me."

Dean doesn't understand. Doesn't get what Sam is saying and he's frozen to the spot.

“Not again, please,” Sam says into Dean’s skin and Dean can’t suppress the shudder going through his body.

Sam holds him like he’s never letting him go and it doesn’t make any sense. Dean’s waiting for the hate, for the disgust; braces himself for the kicks and punches he deserves.

But that never happens.

Sam draws back only enough to bring their lips together; a desperate kiss that leaves Dean breathless and more confused than ever before.

“It doesn’t change anything, Dean,” Sam whispers into the small space between their lips. “I can’t go back. We can’t go back and undo everything, un-feel it. It’s too late.”

Dean feels dazed, his mind working too slow to understand.

“I already love you too much,” Sam says so low that Dean isn’t sure if he’d really said it at all.

“I don’t …,” Dean pulls back a little, just enough to meet Sam’s eyes. “I don’t understand.”

“Dean,” Sam just says and suddenly he’s smiling so bright it makes Dean’s heart jump for a second.

“How can you be okay with this? How can you even … ?” Dean asks incredulously. He doesn’t trust his own senses, can’t believe what Sam is saying.

“I can, Dean. Just the way you could.”

“Sam,” Dean starts but he doesn’t get any further. He doesn’t know what to say.

“It can’t be that easy,” he finally says but the torturous feeling of hope is already spreading inside of him.

Sam laughs and the tears he’s been trying to keep back so hard are finally spilling down his face. “Of all the things going on right now, this really, really is.”

He nudges his face towards Dean, presses a kiss to his lips again, soft and innocent.

“Dean, I don’t know how to explain it to you. But all this time I could see the love for your brother in your eyes and all I wanted was for someone, for you, to love me like that. And now…”

Sam meets his eyes again.

"Dean, the man in your eyes ... that's me."

 

~*~ 13 ~*~

After

 

"Dean? Sam?" Bobby shouts through the house and Dean untangles himself from Sam with a growl. He hates getting up early when he doesn't have to. And especially not when he's been sleeping so damn good.

"Boys?" The old man's voice carries through the house again. "I think you got a visitor."

That startles both of them completely awake and they get up fast, dress silently.

A visitor for them, here, can't be good news.

Their eyes meet and Dean notices vaguely that the cut on Sam's forehead is finally starting to fade. His hair is still getting longer and he doesn't shave all that often and maybe they're both getting too comfortable around here.

"Dean, you comin'?" Sam pulls him from his thoughts, but the faint blush on his cheeks lets Dean know that he had caught him looking.

Jeez, with all that flirting, sometimes Dean has to remind himself that he is in fact a guy.

"Dean! Get the hell up here!" Bobby shouts again and this time he sounds weird enough to really alarm the two guys.

"What is it, Bobby?" Sam asks, being the first to go up the stairs and Dean is right behind him, when his brother stops and stares at the strange man in front of them.

"He is ... I can't believe I'm saying this," Bobby starts and he seems speechless for the first time that Dean can remember. "He is...."

"My name is Castiel," the man says with a low but soft voice and the expression on his face is serious, his piercing blue eyes are shifting slowly between Sam and Dean. "I'm an angel of the Lord."

Silence falls over the room and Dean gapes at the small guy with a worn out trench coat and the alien look on his face.

"Yeah, right," Dean answers eventually, huffing slightly at the idea.

"You don't believe in me," that guy, Castiel, says and it sounds more like a fact than a question.

"Damn right, I don't."

"Dean," Sam and Bobby say in unison like being impolite to that nut job was a crime now but they both keep their eyes on the man in front of them.

"I think ... Dean, I think maybe he's right," Sam whispers.

"Yeah, sure," Dean mocks and he's getting annoyed with the way they're all standing in the middle of the kitchen staring at each other.

The weird man cocks his head to the side and gives Dean a thoughtful glance. "Your mother used to tell you that angels where watching over you right before bed."

Dean's heart speeds up at Castiel's words. How the hell does the guy know that?

"Why don't you believe her anymore?"

Dean's confusion shifts to anger in a heartbeat and he glares at the man in front of him. "What the hell do you want?"

Castiel doesn't even blink at Dean's harsh tone. He turns his gaze to Sam again, looks at him as if he's studying him and then returns to Dean.

"My task has changed. I had been awaiting a different kind of task, but things have changed. You have changed things, Dean Winchester."

"What the hell does that mean?" Sam cuts in and Dean's relieved that he's finally dropping the respectful attitude towards the weird guy.

"Your father is in hell," Castiel starts and neither man in the room misses the way he is looking at Dean and Sam while he says this. "He has broken the first of the 66 seals. Demons broke loose, one in particular. And she will break the other ones."

"No way!" Dean immediately shouts and Sam makes a step back, gets closer to Dean and Dean doesn't know if he's trying to shield him from the angel or the other way around.

"How is that possible?" Bobby asks from the side and Castiel's eyes flicker to him like he's only just remembering now that he is there too.

"'And it is written that the first seal shall be broken when a righteous man sheds blood in hell. As he breaks, so shall it break.'"

"No way, "Dean gasps, horror clutching his heart now and Sam scoots even closer, unconsciously offering his presence for support.

"He resisted a long time, Dean," Castiel tells him and his voice sounds vaguely different, almost sympathizing. "Longer than anyone else would have."

"And now?" Sam asks. "What can we do?"

"There's another part of that prophecy," Castiel explains. "It says that only the one who started it can finish it."

"Then get my father out of hell!" Dean shouts again and hope and adrenaline rush through his blood.

But the look on the angel's face crushes his hope immediately. "Things have changed. Profoundly. The demons now know about the prophecy and they keep John hidden and protected. Not even I can get to him now."

When the words sink into Dean, he feels his body getting cold, feels an unpleasant shiver down his spine. He almost grabs for Sam's hand and a thought like that still startles him. How much he needs Sam.

"But to our fortune," Castiel goes on," the old prophecy has been slightly misinterpreted. A fact which only a few of us know about."

The angel pauses again, as if it's strange and new to him to talk. And maybe it is.

"The text doesn't exactly speak of the same man. But of the same blood."

"What are you saying?" Sam whispers again, although the truth is dawning on all of them.

"Why are you here?" Dean makes a step forward, can almost grab the importance of that moment and he feels solid and grounded when he brushes Sam's shoulder, awaiting the answer that will surely take their lives apart.

"Why are you here?" he repeats and the angel gets a determined look on his face.

"Because God commanded it. Sam and Dean Winchester, we have work for you."


	5. Epilogue

Then

 

Missouri wiped her nose and shook her head in anger. "Silly old woman," she cursed herself, almost pushing the salt off the table when she placed it on it with too much force.

Her eyes were burning by now. She couldn't stop crying, couldn't stop the tears flowing down her cheeks as much as she tried.

The sizzling sound of boiling water made her look up, distracted her from her own thoughts. She turned the heat down, added the ingredients for her special sauce and willed the tears away again.

A good strong meal. That's what the boys would need. Something warm and solid in their stomachs. God knew they weren't getting much of that.

The meat was in the oven so it would still be hot enough when the boys arrived. The chocolate pudding put away in the fridge for later, the vegetables almost done.

And the bed upstairs was already made, the heater in the small room turned on so it would be warm enough for the night.

One bed. Only for one brother.

Missouri reached for her tissue, drying her nose and face again. This was ridiculous. She had known. For months she had known.

Everything had led up to this. This day had been the very reason why she had insisted on meeting the boys in the first place. Had insisted on getting to know them, to gain their trust. To gain Dean's trust.

From the moment John had walked into her home, when she had made the connection and let the Winchesters into her life, she had known that this would happen. And she had made damn sure that everything led up to it the right way.

 

The hesitant knock on her front door made new tears spill down her cheeks. "Get a grip, Lady," she told herself, wiping her hands off her apron.

The sight on her front porch broke her heart once again. Dean stood there, his face shut down and determined, one hand holding a small duffel, the other almost being crushed by his baby brother, standing on wobbly legs next to him, making big uncertain eyes at Missouri.

"You're crying?" Dean said and his voice was rough, even more so for a seven-year old.

"Yes, sweetheart. But don't you worry about it." She smiled, feeling the smile tug at her heart.

"You know why we're here?" Dean's stance was cautious. Ready to run for his life, Missouri thought and she suppressed the urge to grasp her chest.

Missouri nodded to Dean's question.

"You gonna call Dad?" More fear, more distrust.

Missouri bent forward a little, catching Dean's eyes. "No, sweetheart. I won't."

"So, you're gonna help us?" There was a mix of hope and pain in the little boy's voice and that made even his baby brother turn his head from Missouri to Dean, confusion huge in his eyes.

Missouri let out a shaky breath. "Yes, Dean. I'm gonna help you."

Dean nodded silently, seemingly relaxing now but Missouri didn't miss how the grip on his little brother's hand got stronger.

Missouri clapped her hands and broke the moment stretching between them. She took a step back and made way for the brother's to get in the house.

"Come in you two. You hungry? You're just in time for lunch sweethearts."

As she watched Dean untie his brother's shoelaces, she didn't need her higher senses to know that that moment would change all their lives completely. And she was afraid of the nights to come, when little Sammy would scream himself hoarse before he fell asleep. Scream for his big brother.

 

~*~ The End ~*~


End file.
